"Thousands have had to do so--millions; but do not let us talk about it
any more. We are nervous and unstrung. You will never be persuaded until
you see for yourself. If you wish to make the effort, you must do it
soon; in fact you must do it now. I have come to tell you that his
physician says he will not live until morning."

"Then let us go!" cried David, seizing his hat and starting for the
door, white to the lips and trembling violently.

They passed out into the night together and hurried away to the beggar's
room. Each was too burdened for talk and they walked in silence.
Arriving at the house, they ascended the stairs on tiptoe and paused to
listen at the door. "I will leave it ajar, so you may hear what he says,
and then you can judge if I am right," said Mantel, entering quietly.

He approached the table and turned up the lamp which he had left burning
dimly. By its pale light David could see the great head lying on the
pillow, the chin elevated, the mouth partially open, the breast heaving
with the painful efforts to catch a few last fluttering inspirations.

Nestling close to the ashen face and licking the cheek now and then with
his little red tongue, was the terrier.

Mantel's footfall, quiet as it was, disturbed the sleeper, who moved,
turned his head toward the sound and asked in a husky and but
half-audible voice, "Who is there?"

"It is I. How are you now? A little better?" said Mantel, laying his
soft, cool hand upon the broad forehead, wet already with the
death-damp.