Mrs. St. John rushed to the door, threw it wide open, and shrieked aloud in frenzied accents for help.
The servants came rushing in and found their old master crouching in a corner of the room, gibbering and mouthing like some terrible wild beast, his bloodshot eyes rolling in their sockets, his lips all flecked with foam, while Howard Templeton remained silent in the center of the room, like a statue of horror.
"A doctor—bring a doctor!" shrieked Xenie, wildly.
It was not five minutes before a physician, living close by, was brought in, but even as he crossed the threshold, the insane creature rolled over upon the floor in the agonies of death.
One or two desperate struggles, a gasp, a quiver from head to foot and the old millionaire lay dead before them.
The physician knelt down and felt his heart and his pulse.
"He is dead," he said, shaking his head slowly and sadly. "I apprehended a fit the last time he consulted me, some three weeks ago. His mind and body were both weakening fast. This mournful end was not unexpected by me."
Mrs. St. John made a quick step forward.
She was about to say, "He did not die in a fit, doctor, he died of poison," when a hand like steel gripped her wrist.
She looked up and met the stern, awful gaze of Howard Templeton.