As We Forgive Them

by William Le Queux

The light of the cheerless February afternoon was quickly fading, and as we turned softly to descend and inform the hotel manager of the fatal termination of the seizure, I noticed that the dead man’s suit-case stood in the corner, and that his keys were still in it.

“We had better take possession of these,” I remarked, locking the bag and transferring the small bunch to my pocket. “His executors will want them.”

Then we closed the door behind us, and going to the office imparted the unwelcome intelligence that a death had occurred in the hotel. The manager was, however, quite prepared to learn such news, for, half an hour before, the doctor had declared that the stranger could not live. His case had been hopeless from the very first.

Briefly, the facts were as follows. Burton Blair had bidden his daughter Mabel farewell, left his house in Grosvenor Square on the previous morning, and had taken the ten-thirty express from Euston to Manchester, where he had said he had some private business to transact. Just before the train arrived at Crewe, he suddenly became unwell, and was discovered by one of the luncheon-car attendants in a state of collapse in one of the first-class compartments. Brandy and restoratives being administered, he revived sufficiently to travel on to Manchester, being assisted out of the train at London Road, and two porters had helped him into a cab and accompanied him to the hotel, where, on being put to bed, he again lapsed into unconsciousness. A doctor was called, but he could not diagnose the ailment, except that the patient’s heart was seriously affected and, that being so, a fatal termination of the seizure might ensue. Towards two o’clock next morning, Blair, who had neither given his name nor told the hotel people who he was, asked that both Seton and I should be telegraphed for, and the result was that in anxious surprise we had both travelled up to Manchester, where on arrival, an hour before, we had discovered our friend to be in an utterly hopeless condition.

On entering the room we found the doctor, a young and rather pleasant man named Glenn, in attendance. Blair was conscious, and listened to the medical opinion without flinching. Indeed, he seemed rather to welcome death than to dread it, for, when he heard that he was in such a very critical condition, a faint smile crossed his pale, drawn features, and he remarked—

“Every man must die, so it may as well be to-day as to-morrow.” Then, turning to me, he added, “Gilbert, you are very good to come just to say good-bye,” and he put out his thin cold hand and grasped mine, while his eyes fixed upon me with that strange, intent look that only comes into a man’s gaze when he is on the brink of the grave.

“It is a friend’s duty, Burton,” I answered, deeply in earnest. “But you must still hope. Doctors are often mistaken. Why, you’ve a splendid constitution, haven’t you?”

“Hardly ever had a day’s illness since I was a kid,” was the millionaire’s reply in a low, weak voice; “but this fit has bowled me completely over.”

We endeavoured to ascertain exactly how he was seized, but neither Reggie nor the doctor could gather anything tangible.

“I became faint all of a sudden, and I know nothing more,” was all the dying man would reply. “But,” he added, turning again to me, “don’t tell Mab till it’s all over. Poor girl! My only regret is to leave her. You two fellows were so very good to her back in the old days, you won’t abandon her now, will you?” he implored, speaking slowly and with very great difficulty, tears standing in his eyes.