"It is a lie."
"Vincent died this morning at eight o'clock," repeated Roland. "I was with him: he telegraphed for me yesterday. Look at this mourning band"--showing his hat--"I've just been to get it put on. Do you think I'd have the face to invent a jest on this subject? Vincent Yorke is dead, poor fellow, and I have come into things as Sir Roland. Not that I can fully believe it myself yet." The tone of the voice, the deep black band, and a kind of subtle instinct within himself brought conviction of the truth home to Gerald Yorke. Had it been to save his fame, he could not have helped the loud brazen tone from going out of his voice, or the dread that took possession of his whole aspect.
"What--has--he--died--of?"
"The gunshot wound."
A pause. Gerald broke it.
"It was going on well. I heard so only two days ago."
"But it took a sudden turn for the worse; and he is dead."
Gerald's face assumed a tinge as of bluish chalk. Was he to have two lives on his soul? Hamish Channing's had surely been enough for him without Vincent Yorke's. Pushing back his damp hair, he met Roland's steady look, and so made believe to feel nothing, went to the fire, and stirred it gently.
"Why did the doctors let it take this turn?" he asked, flinging down the poker. "It was as simple a wound as ever was given."
"I suppose they'd have helped it if they could."