“Yes.”
“And the retraction of the head? She’s been sick, too: cerebral vomiting. Damn the disease, I’ve seen too much of it!”
Murchison’s face might have been sculptured by Michael Angelo.
“Then you think it is that?” he asked, dully.
“Tubercular meningitis?”
“Yes.”
John Tugler nodded.
There was a short and distraught silence before the little man picked up his hat. He smoothed it gently with the sleeve of his coat. Murchison stood motionless, staring at the floor.
“Look here, Murchison.”
He glanced up and met the other man’s dull eyes.