Mr. Lovell came in.
"Is this the gentleman, Mr. Wilmot?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"Then whatever she wants to say had better be said now."
Inspector Keene touched me on the arm.
"You must take it down in writing, sir; here's pen, ink, and paper. You, Mr. Lovell, and I must sign it."
"Yes, yes. I will"
And we entered the room.
The housekeeper's face was turned from us when we came in. One hand lay outside on the coverlet—that white, well-formed hand, that looked more like a lady's than a servant's.
At the foot of the bed stood Father Maurice, and a nurse was bending over the prostrate form and wiping the moisture from the brow. She must have heard us enter, for she looked round, pale, ghastly, in the wretched light of the fire and candles. The surgeon went first, then Inspector Keene, then I and Wilmot. She marked each one as we approached the bed, eagerly, wistfully. At first Wilmot shrank behind me, and my tall frame hid him from view. Her lips moved.