"At Kikat. He followed me with the intention of frustrating my plans; and he would have done so at the cost of murder, I make no doubt. But I changed the route I had intended to take, and, I am thankful to say, he missed me."
At that moment the voice of the housekeeper could be heard raised in anger--evidently, from the deeper tones which followed, against some man. Mr. Brock grew deadly pale, and his heart beat wildly with sheer nervousness.
"See--see what it is, Mr. Mallow!" he gasped, "Oh, this will kill me!"
The young man ran to the door and threw it open. As though he had been waiting outside, Jeremiah shambled into the room amid the shrill expostulations of the sour spinster.
"I came as you told me," whimpered Trall, clutching Mallow. "Where is the clergyman? I must see the clergyman."
"Trall, this is disgraceful. Mr. Brock----"
"Aha!" breathed the vicar, and both men turned at the strangled sound to see him sitting up looking at the newcomer with vacantly staring eyes. On his side, Jeremiah released his hold of Mallow, and, as though drawn by a magnet, approached the sofa. The sick man and his visitor gazed blankly at one another.
"Why," whispered Trall, still gazing, "it's you--it's--it's--it's--why, it's Michael!"
"Michael?" repeated Mallow. "What Michael?"
"Michael Trall--my brother. Oh, Michael, I'm so glad to see you. I'm Jerry."
The man on the bed stared and stared, but spoke not a word. His face was blanched with fear, and he repeatedly put out his hands as though to keep the other back. Then quietly, silently, without a sign of recognition, he fell back dead.
Even in the first shock of this untimely death, though timely discovery, Mallow kept his wits about him. That Brock was truly Michael Trall he made no doubt. For, in truth, Jeremiah had neither the capacity nor the reason to simulate relationship of the kind. Moreover, nothing surely could be more conclusive than the fatal effect which this unexpected meeting had had for Brock, beside whom now the wretched man dropped into prayer and supplication. He called upon him to recover, implored him for a sign--a look. He wept bitterly. Mallow did not molest him. He was totally unfit for rational conversation. Poor Brock--he may still be called so for the avoidance of confusion--was quite dead. Mallow slipped his hand under his clothes on to the heart to make quite sure. The sight of his brother, and the knowledge of what would follow, had done their work and snuffed him out of this life.