"It's his breathing," said Wetter. "He can't get his breath; can't speak at all. Come along."
"I'm ready; I'll follow you."
As I reached the door I turned. She was not looking at me; she had sat down in a chair by the fire and was gazing fixedly at the flames. I have had that picture of her often in my mind.
Wetter led me downstairs and out into the street at a rapid pace. I followed him, trying to gather myself together and think coherently. Too sudden a change paralyzes; the mind must have time for readjustment. Hammerfeldt was and had always been so large a figure and a presence so important in my life; I could only whisper to myself, "He's dying; it's his breathing; he can't get his breath."
We went in by the back door as we had arranged, and gained the study.
"Quick!" whispered Wetter. "Remember you were in here. Don't make any excuses about delay. Or put it on me; say I hesitated to rouse you."
I listened little to all that he said, and paid small heed to the precautions that his wariness suggested.
"I hope he won't be dead when you get there," he added as we started for the hall. "Here's your hat."
I caught at the word "dead."
"If he's dead" I repeated aimlessly. "If he's dead, Wetter"
Then for an instant he turned to me, his face full of expression, his eyes keen and eager. He shrugged his shoulders.
"He's an old man," said he. "We must all die. And if he's dead"
