“A lamp, men,” he demanded, pressing his ear to Camilla’s chest.
“Help me here, Evans,” he continued without turning. “I think she’s fainted is all,” and 234 together they carried their burden into the tiny sleeping-room, closing the door behind.
That instant Ole, the Swede, thrust a curious head in at the outer doorway. He had noticed the light and the gathering, and came to ascertain their meaning. Wondering, his big eyes passed around the waiting group and from them to the floor. With that look self-consciousness left him; he crowded to the front, bending over the tall man and speaking his name.
“Mr. Maurice,” he called. “Mr. Maurice.”
He snatched off his own coat, rolling it under Ichabod’s head, and with his handkerchief touched the dark spot on the forehead. It was clotted already and hardening, and realization came to the boy Swede. He stood up, facing the men, the big veins in his throat throbbing.
“Who did this?” he thundered, crouching for a spring like a great dog. “Who did this, I say?”
It was the call to action. In the sudden horror of the tragedy the big fellows had momentarily forgotten their own grim epilogue. Now, at the words, they turned toward the 235 door. But the Swede was in advance, blocking the passage.
“Tell me first who did this thing,” he challenged, threateningly.
A hand was laid gently upon his shoulder.
“Asa Arnold, my boy,” answered a quiet voice, which continued, in response to a sudden thought, “You live near here; have you seen him to-night?”