“He is very rambling, but I ran gather this much,” went on Janson in low tones. “He wants to leave some instructions before he dies. I thought of you at once.”
“Right; I will be with you in a couple of minutes.”
By this time the landlord and his wife were awake, and he heard the man’s heavy footsteps along the passage. He opened his door, and briefly explained the situation.
In a very short time he and the doctor were in the bedroom of the dying man. Strange was at the bedside, looking intently at the prostrate figure, without a trace of emotion in his sharp, inscrutable features. He withdrew a little distance as Janson approached, and murmured something in a low voice to the other. It was an apology for disturbing him.
The man lay motionless for some few minutes, the pallor of death settling deeper over the once swarthy features. Janson turned to Varney.
“I’m afraid it is too late, Mr Franks. He is sinking rapidly. If you could have been here when I first came.”
Was it fancy, or did he see an expression of relief steal across Strange’s impenetrable mask?
If so, he was doomed to disappointment. The dying man stirred, and his lips moved. Varney leaned over, and his quick ear caught some muttered words, growing fainter and fainter with the waning of the flickering strength.
The words were in the bastard tongue of Piedmont, difficult to understand by anyone who has not lived in Northern Italy.
“Dio!” gasped the dying man. “Forgive me. The doctors have long ago told me I should die suddenly, but—I—I never expected this. Oh, that somebody here could understand me?” he whispered to himself.