something, "the morphia, quick." Even then he could have been saved, and I'm not sure that the wistful look in his eyes didn't mean, "You needn't if you don't want to." But I did—I was ready now—and without a handshake I prepared, and gave, the injection.
"I'm going, Gwen," he whispered to her. "Good-bye, my darling, d'Escombe will help you."
He glanced at me with rapidly contracting pupils, the weeping girl kneeling by his bed-side, convulsively clutching one thin, white hand.
"Good-bye—remember," were the last words I heard before he fell into the stupor from which there was to be no awakening.
We sat with him all night, and in the early morning he died—while the poor little girl sobbed on my shoulder.
I managed to quieten her after a time, and told her that I would attend to everything.
Luckily there were no near relations to come bothering with awkward and inquisitive questions; and everybody knew he had been ailing for some time, so, therefore, no one was surprised to hear of his death. I certified aortic valvular disease, and in due time claimed and got for my fiancée the insurance money.
