We stumbled in together, Lawrence still holding his candle. Mrs.
Inglethorp was lying on the bed, her whole form agitated by
violent convulsions, in one of which she must have overturned the
table beside her. As we entered, however, her limbs relaxed, and
she fell back upon the pillows.
John strode across the room, and lit the gas. Turning to Annie,
one of the housemaids, he sent her downstairs to the dining-room
for brandy. Then he went across to his mother whilst I unbolted
the door that gave on the corridor.
I turned to Lawrence, to suggest that I had better leave them now
that there was no further need of my services, but the words were
frozen on my lips. Never have I seen such a ghastly look on any
man's face. He was white as chalk, the candle he held in his
shaking hand was sputtering onto the carpet, and his eyes,
petrified with terror, or some such kindred emotion, stared
fixedly over my head at a point on the further wall. It was as
though he had seen something that turned him to stone.
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