“It was heart disease; the blow could never have killed him,” muttered Colonel Craighill.
Wayne knelt again by the quiet figure and laid his ear to the pulseless heart. Mrs. Craighill watched him as he rose, waiting for him to tell her to call the doctor. It was the high moment in all their lives, as she fully realized.
“The situation is just this, father,” and Wayne’s calmness seemed to reassure Colonel Craighill.
“Yes, yes!” he faltered.
“A man has died here in your house. You admit you struck him; and no matter whether death resulted from excitement or from your blow, the thing is ugly. A doctor must be called. Addie, go and telephone for Dr. Silvan, for Gardner, too, and for Wynn—try their houses. Silvan is nearest; call him last. There’s no time for quibbling—what are we going to tell them when they come, and the coroner and the police? It’s for you to say.”
“Oh, my God, Wayne, what am I to do? I tell you I didn’t kill him; I couldn’t have killed him, it was more—why Wayne, you know——”
“The man’s dead, in your house, and you confess that you struck him. What are we going to say about it?”
Mrs. Craighill could be heard in the telephone room calling the doctors. Colonel Craighill paced the floor nervously. He whirled round, his face twitching with excitement, and caught Wayne by the shoulder.
“If we could ignore the blow—if we could say—the man—died—dropped dead—that would be true—quite the truth.”
“But you told me you struck him.”