"Run for a doctor—quick—you fool!"
Willie staggered away, almost sobered with fright. Persis stood wringing her hands. Through her brain ran the music of the tango they were playing:
At the devil's ball, at the devil's ball,
Dancing with the devil—oh, the little devil!
Dancing at the devil's ball.
She ran to the door like a fury and shrieked: "Stop that music! For God's sake, stop that music!"
The music ended in shreds of discord. The dancers paused in puppet attitudes, then turned like a huddle of curious cattle and drifted toward the door. Persis returned to Forbes' side, and, bending close, heard the old man speaking thickly as his hands fluttered feebly about Forbes' arm.
"Harvey—I'm so—sor-ry for you—and for her. Take care of—my poor—ch-child, won't you?"
"Yes, yes!" Forbes whispered.
"And—and Harvey—I wanted to—to die in A-mer-America. Take me b-back and bury me—at home, won't you?"
"Yes, yes!"
The soft hands glided along Forbes' arm in a fumbling caress.