And she watched the fire flicker and fall. “He died in my arms,” said Janey.
The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he would faint. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t breathe. He felt all his strength flowing—flowing into the big dark chair, and the big dark chair held him fast, gripped him, forced him to bear it.
“What?” he said dully. “What’s that you say?”
“The end was quite peaceful,” said the small voice. “He just”—and Hammond saw her lift her gentle hand—“breathed his life away at the end.” And her hand fell.
“Who—else was there?” Hammond managed to ask.
“Nobody. I was alone with him.”
Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! This would kill him! And all the while she spoke:
“I saw the change coming and I sent the steward for the doctor, but the doctor was too late. He couldn’t have done anything, anyway.”
“But—why you, why you?” moaned Hammond.
At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face.
“You don’t mind, John, do you?” she asked. “You don’t It’s nothing to do with you and me.”
