"I--oh I--Beverley, I--c-can't!"
And now, all at once, as they stared into each other's eyes,
Barnabas leaning forward, strong and compelling, Barrymaine upon his
knees clinging weakly to the table, sudden and sharp upon the
stillness broke a sound--an ominous sound, the stumble of a foot
that mounted the stair.
Uttering a broken cry Barrymaine struggled up to his feet, strove
desperately to speak, his distorted mouth flecked with foam, and
beating the air with frantic hands pitched over and thudded to the
floor.
Then the door opened and Mr. Smivvle appeared who, calling upon
Barrymaine's name, ran forward and fell upon his knees beside that
convulsed and twisted figure.
"My God, Beverley!" he cried, "how comes he like this--what has
happened?"
"Are you his friend?"
"Yes, yes, his friend--certainly! Haven't I told you the hand of a
Smivvle, sir--"
"Tonight he killed Jasper Gaunt."
"Eh? Killed? Killed him?"
"Murdered him--though I think more by accident than design."
"Killed him! Murdered him!"
"Yes. Pull yourself together and listen. Tomorrow the hue and cry
will be all over London, we must get him away--out of the country if
possible.
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