“Overwrought nerves,” whispered Poynter.
There happened to be a bench near by, placed for the convenience of the chambermaid of the floor. Clementina made him sit down.
“I don’t think you’re quite up to seeing him just now,” she said.
He shook his head. “No. Not just now. I feel faint. It’s death. I’m not used to death. You go in. Give him my love. I’ll see him later. But give him my love.”
“Very well,” said Clementina.
She rapped gently at the door. It was opened and a sister of charity in a great white coif appeared on the threshold.
She looked at the visitors sadly.
“C’est fini,” she whispered.
Quixtus staggered to his feet.
“Dead?”