He was in well-cut evening clothes, with a fine diamond sparkling in his well-starched shirt-front. Jerome Jerrold had always been well-dressed, and even though he had risen to that high position in the medical profession, he had always dressed even foppishly, so his traducers had alleged.
Jack Sainsbury unloosed the black satin cravat, tore off his collar, and opened his friend’s shirt at the throat. But it was all of no avail. There was no movement—no sign of life.
A few moments later Thomasson came back in breathless haste.
“I’ve spoken to Sir Houston, sir,” he said. “He’s on his way round in a taxi.”
Then both men gazed on the prostrate form which Sainsbury supported, and as they did so there slowly came a faint flush into the doctor’s face. He drew a long breath, gasped for a second, and his eyes relaxed as he turned his gaze upon his friend. His right arm moved, and his hand gripped Sainsbury’s arm convulsively.
For a few moments he looked straight into his friend’s face inquiringly, gazing intently, first as though he realised nothing, and then in slow recognition.
“Why, it’s Jack!” he gasped, recognising his friend. “You—I—I felt a sudden pain—so strange, and in an instant I—ah! I—I wonder—save me—I—I—ah! how far off you are! No—no! don’t leave me—don’t. I—I’ve been shot—shot!—I know I have—ah! what pain—what agony! I—”
And, drawing a long breath, he next second fell back into Sainsbury’s arms like a stone.
Ten minutes later a spruce, young-looking, clean-shaven man entered briskly with Thomasson, who introduced him as Sir Houston Bird.
In a moment he was full of concern regarding his friend Jerrold, and, kneeling beside the couch whereon Sainsbury and Thomasson had placed him, quickly made an examination.