all screwed up and convulsed! and horrible—awful" Words failed him, he seemed to be struck dumb with horror.
The nurse—a capable woman—took him by the shoulders and shook him. At that moment Dr. Shaw-Lathome arrived, followed almost immediately by myself. We had occupied adjoining rooms. He was a little, fat, fussy man, with gold eye-glasses and short, bristly grey hair—you know the type, old chap.
"What's this I hear?" he inquired.
"Sir Geoffrey has just died suddenly, doctor," answered the nurse. "But this man whom I sent to fetch Lieutenant Laurence says that he is dead also—or if not, convulsed and seriously ill. There is evidently something horrible the matter. Will you see? You can do nothing for Sir Geoffrey himself, and this man"—nodding towards the shivering Roberts—"is useless."
"Eh, what?—young Francis dead? What do you mean?" inquired the medico, looking severely at the servant.
"He is dead in his bed, sir," repeated the frightened man. "Come with me, and I'll show you the room—in the tower—but I won't go in again, sir, no—not for a thousand pounds—awful—awful"
