Instantly I obtained a pen and scrap of paper which I placed before him.
For a long time his hand trembled, so that he could make no intelligible writing. At last, however, he managed slowly, and with infinite difficulty, to trace very unevenly the words—
“Remember the name Harford—be friendly, but beware of him and the Hand.”
He watched my face eagerly as I read.
Of a sudden, the light went out of his grey countenance, the pen dropped from his thin, nerveless fingers, a scarlet spot fell upon the paper, and a deep, long-drawn sigh escaped his ashen lips.
Then a great stillness fell—a great silence broken only by the low roar of the London traffic.
And I knew that Melvill Arnold, the man of mystery, was dead.