His breath came in a fierce, whistling rush, and he sat bolt upright, gripping their hands and struggling.
"Nigel, fetch the doctor!" shrieked Janey.
But Len had his brother's hand in the agonised grip of dying.
"Tighter ... oh, tighter...."
There was another whistling rush of breath, but this time no struggle—only a sigh.
Len fell back on the pillow, and the terror passed suddenly from his face.
CHAPTER IX AND YOU ALSO SAID ...
During the week that followed Leonard's death, there was a succession of heavy storms. Chill sodden winds drove June from the fields, and substituted a bleak mock-autumn. Sparrow Hall was full of the moaning winds—they sped down the passages, and throbbed against the doors, they whistled through cracks and chinks, and rumbled in the chimneys.