CHAPTER XVI.
DIABLERIE.
“Shades of Paracelsus!” cried the Doctor. “If this ain’t the most amazing thing I ever saw?”
The Doctor stood on the opposite side of the altar looking at me. In spite of the vigor of his exclamation, he appeared to be calm and collected. I saw that he had pulled Maurice’s shirt open and was feeling about inside, trying to find the heart.
“Thank God you are yourself again,” I murmured. “It’s all over now, I suppose.”
“You mean with Maurice?”
“Of course! Who else?”
You forget, brother Wylde, that there still exists an individual of the name of Philpot—besides, there is the girl and yourself.”
“Waste no words now, for heaven sake! Only tell me if he is dead.”
“Just what I am trying to find out, my dear fellow. Be patient a moment and we shall see.”
For fully ten minutes he labored, displaying, as he had done in the case of Walla’s father, a method in his work which bore out his claim to some medical skill.
Anxiously absorbed, I watched, unable to turn my thoughts until at length he drew back and boldly pronounced his dictum.
“It’s no use, talking, Wylde; Maurice is dead.”
And the Doctor believed it—nor can I blame him. I often wonder how I had the hardihood to face him down as I did.
“It makes no difference what you or any one else say!” I cried passionately. “I will never leave that body until Nature sets her final seal upon it! Where’s the other one? Where is that scoundrel Mirrikh? What”
“Hush—sh!” he interposed. For God’s sake restrain yourself and remember that we are entirely at the mercy of these people. Look behind you—we are not alone.”
