There was silence for a moment in the room, broken only by Fenway’s sobs and by a low moan of anguish from the father. Then came a sound of stumbling footsteps, slowly, very slowly advancing up the stairs. The sound of men carrying a heavy burden.
“My friend! Be brave!” and Paul Crossett put his arm about his old friend’s shoulders. “We will fight for her life, you and I together, as life is not often fought for.”
The footsteps had grown nearer, in the room there was silence as the four men waited, in the court-yard below a street organ began to play, and the foolish, empty tune burned itself forever into their memories as they stood there.
The footsteps hesitated for a moment on the landing below, then began again, nearer, louder now, and suddenly a big, red-faced policeman stood in the doorway.
“Here?” he inquired, in that queer, impersonal voice that speaks of long acquaintance with the tragedies of life.
“Yes,” replied John, hoarsely, “here.”
An ambulance surgeon entered in response to the officer’s nod, and following him came another policeman and a white-coated driver; between them on a stretcher they bore a covered form, very quiet, so quiet that not even a movement stirred the blanket that covered it.
As they put their burden down gently on the worn old couch the young surgeon turned to Dr. Barnhelm, who stepped forward.
“It is no use, sir. You can’t do anything. It was the heart, I think. She was not crushed, but she died instantly. Can any of you give me the facts for my report?”
Maria had entered the adjoining room, attracted by the unusual sounds, and heard what he said, and as she heard she cried out pitifully. The sound seemed to add the finishing touch to the strain they were under, and they turned sharply.