"She's trying to signal," whispered Braile. "But what?"
Again the long-lashed lids dropped and rose-four times…pause…nine times…pause…once…
"She's going," whispered Braile.
I knelt, stethoscope at ears…slower…slower beat the heart…and slower…and stopped.
"She's gone!" I said, and arose. We bent over her, waiting for that last hideous spasm,
convulsion-whatever it might be.
It did not come. Stamped upon her dead face was the loathing, and that only. Nothing of the devilish
glee. Nor was there sound from her dead lips. Beneath my hand I felt the flesh of her white arm begin to
stiffen.
The unknown death had destroyed Nurse Walters-there was no doubt of that. Yet in some obscure,