"Me?"
"Yes."
"Oh, well, they all ought to know it," he said, with a sweep of his hand towards the corridors.
"Hurry and find Mr. Clayton first and bring him to me."
Baker met Mr. Clayton at the main entrance below and beckoned him to follow. He led the way into a dark room stored with boxes and then into the farther corner of it. There he stood Mr. Clayton with his back against the wall and looked straight into his face. His manner was so mysterious, and there was so strange an expression in his face,—a kind of empty exaltation it seemed,—and his familiarity in touching Mr. Clayton's person was so extraordinary, that that gentleman was alarmed for Baker's sanity. Then Baker leaned forward and whispered one terrible word,—
"Cholery!"
Cholera! Great God! No wonder that Mr. Clayton turned deathly pale and leaned heavily against the wall.
At midnight the stranger died, and none in the house had heard of the frightful danger which had come to assail them. The physician and Baker had been with him constantly, but their efforts had availed nothing; and after preparing him for the grave they went out and locked the door. Mr. Clayton was waiting for them. The anxious look in the faces of the two gentlemen was intensified; Baker's evinced nothing but calm consciousness of responsibility. The guests were slumbering.
"We must alarm the house," whispered Mr. Clayton.
The doctor shook his head sadly. "If we do," he said, "there will be a panic; and, besides, the night air of these mountains is very cool, and if they go from their warm beds into it, likely without taking time to dress, the danger will be great."