“I cannot reach the bullet,” he said. “But 'tis no matter for that.” He shook his head solemnly. “The lung has been pierced. A little time now, and—I can do nothing more.”
Mr. Caryll nodded in silence, his face drawn with pain. With a gesture he dismissed the doctor, who went out with Bentley.
When the valet returned, Mr. Caryll was on his knees beside the bed, Sir Richard's hand in his, and Sir Richard was speaking in a feeble, hoarse voice—gasping and coughing at intervals.
“Don't—don't grieve, Justin,” he was saying. “I am an old man. My time must have been very near. I—I am glad that it is thus. It is much better than if they had taken me. They'd ha' shown me no mercy. 'Tis swifter thus, and—and easier.”
Silently Justin wrung the hand he held.
“You'll miss me a little, Justin,” the old man resumed presently. “We have been good friends, lad—good friends for thirty years.”
“Father!” Justin cried, a sob in his voice.
Sir Richard smiled. “I would I were your father in more than name, Justin. Hast been a good son to me—no son could have been more than you.”
Bentley drew nigh with a long glass containing a cordial the doctor had advised. Sir Richard drank avidly, and sighed content when he returned the glass. “How long yet, Justin?” he inquired.
“Not long, father,” was the gloomy answer.