“Please do.”
Lascelles was walking rapidly towards them. He looked ill but eager. His eyes were full of a fanatic pleasure, a kind of holy rapture that appeared to make him even taller than he actually was. He acknowledged the introduction with a bow, and would have passed on, but Sir Joshua stopped him with a question.
“You have come from your sick people, Mr. Lascelles?”
“Yes. They are no longer sick. I was just in time to hear their confessions and give them the viaticum.”
“Good God!” Sir Joshua was evidently shocked. “It’s not ten minutes since we left them.”
“No? The end has always been very sudden, hasn’t it, Marlowe?”
“Yes. But this is quicker than usual. Do you think, Sir Joshua”—and he lowered his voice—“a post-mortem?”
“No. It would be useless. At least it would be no help to me. By the way, Marlowe, how have you entered the cause of death?”
“Well, sir—I’ve frankly put ‘Heart failure, cause unknown.’ There seemed to be nothing between that and ‘Act of God.’”
“Ah! Marlowe, that’s what you should have put,” intervened Lascelles. “It is the hand of God—the hand of God.” Then, with a bow to Sir Joshua, he hurried away.