There came a sound of swift footsteps and the door was thrown open.
"Too late," whispered Sir Charles in a choking voice. He began to clutch his throat as Benson hurried into the room.
"My God!" whispered Harley. "He is dying!"
Indeed, the truth was all too apparent. Sir Charles Abingdon was almost past speech. He was glaring across the table as though he saw some ghastly apparition there. And now with appalling suddenness he became as a dead weight in Harley's supporting grasp. Raspingly, as if forced in agony from his lips:
"Fire-Tongue," he said . . . "Nicol Brinn". . . .
Benson, white and terror-stricken, bent over him.
"Sir Charles!" he kept muttering. "Sir Charles! What is the matter, sir?"
A stifled shriek sounded from the doorway, and in tottered Mrs. Howett, the old housekeeper, with other servants peering over her shoulder into that warmly lighted dining room where Sir Charles Abingdon lay huddled in his own chair—dead.
