'Go right in,' said a voice sharply. It was Theodore Racksole's. Two
men entered, bearing a prone form on a stretcher, and Racksole
followed them.
Nella sprang up. Racksole stared to see his daughter.
'I didn't know you were in here, Nell. Here,' to the two men, 'out
again.'
'Why!' exclaimed Nella, gazing fearfully at the form on the
stretcher, 'it's Mr Dimmock!'
'It is,' her father acquiesced. 'He's dead,' he added laconically. 'I'd
have broken it to you more gently had I known. Your pardon,
Prince.' There was a pause.
'Dimmock dead!' Prince Aribert whispered under his breath, and he
kneeled down by the side of the stretcher. 'What does this mean?'
The poor fellow was just walking across the quadrangle towards
the portico when he fell down. A commissionaire who saw him
says he was walking very quickly. At first I thought it was
sunstroke, but it couldn't have been, though the weather certainly
is rather warm. It must be heart disease. But anyhow, he's dead.
We did what we could. I've sent for a doctor, and for the police. I
suppose there'll have to be an inquest.'
Theodore Racksole stopped, and in an awkward solemn silence
they all gazed at the dead youth. His features were slightly drawn,
and his eyes closed; that was all. He might have been asleep.
'My poor Dimmock!' exclaimed the Prince, his voice broken. 'And
I was angry because the lad did not meet me at Charing Cross!'
'Are you sure he is dead, Father?' Nella said.
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