In that position the wife of Colonel Pelham found them half an hour later.
“Paul, dear, come with me,” she said, trying to lift him up.
“I want Daddy,” whispered the boy, still clinging to his father.
“Mr. Gaspard,” she said sharply, “this boy must be put to bed at once. He will be ill.”
The man raised his face, ghastly, unshaven, horrible.
“What do you say?” he asked dully.
“The boy, the boy,” she said, pointing to him. “He ought to be in bed. He will be ill.”
“Yes, yes,” he said stupidly. “Certainly, he must go to bed. Come, Paul.” He rose to his feet, and with the boy in his arms staggered into the living room, stood there, swaying drunkenly, and would have fallen had not Colonel Pelham caught him and steadied him to a couch where he lay moaning, “Gone, gone, gone! Oh, my God! Gone forever!” till from sheer weakness, due to starvation and emotional exhaustion, he sank into deathlike sleep.
The boy crept in beside him, stroking his cheek and whispering, “Poor Daddy! Poor Daddy!” till he too fell asleep.