They rushed into the street, but the little delay had enabled the murderer to make his escape.
Nothing was to be seen of any human creature but that still form lying there in a drift of snow that had turned crimson with the blood that was spurting from his breast.
With exclamations of pity and horror, they bent over him, the physician quickly feeling for his heart.
"Is he dead?" asked Leroy Hill, his laughing dark eyes growing soft with pity.
"Not yet; his heart beats faintly, but this flow of blood must be stopped at once. It is very fortunate we came to him so quickly," returned the old physician, tearing open Hawthorne's shirt-bosom and preparing to stanch the flow of blood.
Several people came out of the house and joined them, and a crowd collected quickly, a policeman coming at last around the corner.
Those who could assist the doctor did so, others plied each other with questions.
"Who is he?"
"Who killed him?"