They went back to the sofa on which he was lying. His bloodshot eyes were rolling heavily and vacantly about him, on the search for something. They rested on the doctor—and looked away again. They turned to Mr. Speedwell—and stopped, riveted on his face. The surgeon bent over him, and said, “What is it?”
He answered with a thick accent and laboring breath—uttering a word at a time: “Shall—I—die?”
“I hope not.”
“Sure?”
“No.”
He looked round him again. This time his eyes rested on the trainer. Perry came forward.
“What can I do for you, Sir?”
The reply came slowly as before. “My—coat—pocket.”
“This one, Sir?”
“No.”