“Go, Maria!” said the Doctor, coldly. “Answer any questions this gentleman asks of you. Compose yourself, please, and go.”
The girl turned without a word, and followed by the surgeon went out into the hall, the driver and one of the policemen joining them, while the other crossed and touched Dick Fenway on the arm.
“You’ll have to come with me, sir,” he said quietly.
Fenway for a moment looked at him bewildered, then stooped and picking up the hat he had dropped on the floor, slowly walked to the door. At the door he stopped and looked back at the covered figure on the couch, shuddered and went out, the officer following.
John closed the door softly behind them and turned back to where the two men stood, Paul Crossett’s hand on the father’s shoulder.
“Can’t—can’t you do anything,” he questioned, “anything at all?”
“Wait!” The word came like a command, sharply, from Dr. Barnhelm’s lips. “Paul! You know what I am going to do?”
Dr. Crossett nodded slightly. The meaning of it came suddenly to John, and he cried out in protest, “Doctor!”
“You see her there! Dead!” The father spoke slowly, calmly. “Well, I can bring her back! She is my daughter.” He turned quietly to John, but with a look in his eyes that few men would have dared oppose.
“Shall I let her die? I—who can save her?”