Mr. Malakite’s daughter was standing by his bed’s head when the two men entered the room. Her arms, with the fingers clasped desperately inside the palms, hung down by her sides like torn tree-limbs in a deadly wind. Her head drooped upon her chest. He fancied for a moment that her profile was contorted with crying; but when she raised her head, her brown eyes were dull, abstracted, and completely tearless.

After bustling about the body for a minute or two, as if professional nicety required more evidence of death than nature in decency could afford, Doctor Percy bowed himself off.

“Come into the other room, Chris! No!⁠ ⁠… Come along! You must , my darling.” Holding her by one of her clenched hands⁠ ⁠… and she obeyed him like a somnambulist⁠ ⁠… he led her into her parlour, where he made her sit down on a chair, over the glowing heap of cinders.