Biggleswade plucked nervously at the fringe of whisker under his jaws and said faintly, "It's the fourth time up to now. I thought it was fancy."
"I have felt it, too," said Doyne. "It is the Angel of Death." And he pointed to the room where the dead man and woman lay.
"For God's sake let us get away from this," cried Biggleswade.
"And leave the child to die, like the others?" said Doyne.
"We must see it through," said McCurdie.
A silence fell upon them as they sat round in the blaze with the new-born babe wrapped in its odd swaddling clothes asleep on the pile of fur coats, and it lasted until Sir Angus McCurdie looked at his watch.
"Good Lord," said he, "it's twelve o'clock."
"Christmas morning," said Biggleswade.
"A strange Christmas," mused Doyne.