Maxwell Grant
Fingers of Death
CHAPTER I. DYING WORDS
A SPECTRAL gloom seemed to pervade the room where Josiah Bartram lay. Perhaps it was the silence that caused the strange condition; perhaps it was the appearance of Bartram himself. Grace Bartram sensed the tenseness the moment that she entered her uncle’s bedroom.
Josiah Bartram was a man just past middle age; but his appearance tonight marked him as an old man.
His form was motionless beneath the coverlets of the bed. His face, with eyes staring straight upward, showed a yellow hue against the whiteness of the pillows. His hands, too, were yellow, as they slowly twitched upon the surface of the bedspread.
Josiah Bartram was not alone in the room, but the old man seemed entirely unconscious of the presence of the others.
One of these persons was a white-garbed nurse. The other was Mahinda, the old man’s trusted Hindu servant. The nurse was seated at a table, writing a report. The Hindu was standing stolidly beyond the foot of the bed.
Grace Bartram saw all three persons as she tiptoed into the room, but the only one to command her direct attention was her uncle. The sight of that pathetic figure brought a look of anguish to the girl’s face as she advanced softly toward the bed.
JOSIAH BARTRAM seemed to detect his niece’s approach. His eyelids closed and he spoke in a low, feeble voice. His words were uttered in a dull monotone from lips that scarcely seemed to move.
“Grace — Grace” — there was an effort in the old man’s speech — “you will remember — remember all that I have told you. Remember that all my worldly goods belong to you — that, when I die, there is to be no ceremony—”
Grace Bartram had reached a chair beside the bed. Her soft hands were grasping her uncle’s scrawny fingers; her soothing voice was uttering words of comfort to allay the old man’s fears.
“You will be better, uncle,” said the girl. “Doctor Shores will be here shortly. I telephoned to him after Mahinda told me that you were — that you were not feeling as well as before—”
As the girl’s voice wavered, Josiah Bartram spoke again, in the same slow monotone.
“Do not forget Mahinda,” he said. “Live here, Grace, and be happy. Mahinda will always be trustworthy. He is faithful; he will protect you — after I am gone—”
These words increased the girl’s unhappiness. Bravely, Grace tried to overcome Josiah Bartram’s belief that he was about to die. The old man’s hands ceased twitching. As he rested quietly, Grace heard the faint ringing of a distant doorbell. She saw Mahinda, the Hindu, walk softly from the room.
Grace was sure that the bell had announced the arrival of Doctor Felton Shores, the attending physician.
Motioning to the nurse to keep watch, the girl rose silently and left the room. She closed the door behind her, and hurried across the hall to the stairway that led to the first floor.
On the steps, she saw that her surmise had been correct. Mahinda had just admitted Doctor Shores. The physician was removing his hat and coat. Grace hastened down the stairs and approached the physician.
Doctor Felton Shores was recognized as the leading man of medicine in the city of Holmsford. For years, he had been Josiah Bartram’s physician. There was nothing surprising in that fact, for Doctor Shores was the practitioner most favored by the wealthy members of the community; and Josiah Bartram, successful building contractor, was regarded as one of the wealthiest men in Holmsford.
There was a quiet, assuring tone in the physician’s manner that had always impressed Grace Bartram.
She felt sure, now, that this one man could be relied upon to offset her uncle’s critical condition.
“Good evening, Grace,” said Shores, in a placid voice. “Your message was waiting at my home when I returned from a call. Did I understand that your uncle’s condition appeared to be less encouraging?”
The girl nodded.
“Yes, doctor,” she asserted. “He has relapsed into the same weakened state that he was in before. You brought him out of it three days ago. I can only hope that you will succeed again. But—”
The physician patted the girl’s shoulder when he noted that Grace’s voice was faltering. He did not appear to be alarmed; and the action was encouraging.
“Your uncle’s condition is serious,” declared Shores, “but I can hardly regard it as critical. You must not be worried, Grace. With plenty of rest and careful treatment, I believe that he will show a marked improvement.”
“I had hoped so,” responded the girl solemnly. “I had hoped so, doctor, until to-day. But when my uncle talked to me—”
Grace Bartram’s eyes were moist as they looked toward the physician’s sympathetic face. Doctor Shores, adept in human understanding, could see that the girl’s mind contained a burden.
Shores had known Grace since she was a child. He had seen her develop into beautiful young womanhood. He knew that she regarded him as a confidant.
He saw worry in the girl’s face. He watched her turn to see if Mahinda, the servant, was close at hand.
Then, he felt her pluck nervously at his sleeve and, at her bidding, the physician followed the girl into the gloomy, paneled living room that adjoined the hall.
THERE, away from any spot where they might be overheard, Grace engaged the doctor in serious conversation. Her eyes no longer welled with restrained tears. She was bravely trying to explain her apprehensions.
“Uncle talked to me, this afternoon,” declared the girl. “I was alone, beside him. He has a premonition that he is going to die. He seemed complete in that belief.”
“That is not serious, Grace,” responded Shores. “At the same time, it is sufficient to unnerve you “
“It is very serious, doctor,” insisted Grace. “Uncle impressed it upon me. He made me promise to see that he was buried without ceremony; to live here and retain Mahinda, who has been so faithful to him. More than that — he made me send for Hurley Adams.”
“His lawyer?”
“Yes. Mr. Adams was here a few hours ago. Uncle repeated instructions to him. Mr. Adams has his will, and is the executor of his estate. It is dreadful, Doctor Shores — dreadful — to see one whom you love — preparing for death—”
“It is not unusual, Grace,” interposed the physician quietly. “He will recover from that delusion. Is he resting at all comfortably?”
“Only when I soothe him—”
“An injection will help. He is nervous and needs sleep. His present condition may prove to be encouraging. It is at least a sign of arousal from the lethargy which has persisted since he first took to bed.”
The doctor’s emphatic tone was comforting. As Shores turned toward the doorway, the girl followed him from the gloomy room. They encountered Mahinda in the hallway. The Hindu bowed solemnly.
“I have told my master that you are here, sir,” he said to Doctor Shores. “He says that he would like to see you very much.”
The physician nodded and walked up the stairway, accompanied by Grace Bartram. The Hindu servant, moving silently, followed them at a respectful distance. When they reached the door of Josiah Bartram’s bedroom, Shores entered first, and Grace followed. Mahinda remained in the doorway.
Josiah Bartram moved his eyes as Doctor Shores entered. The old man recognized the physician, and stared at him with glassy eyes. Shores took the chair beside the bed, and felt the patient’s pulse.
“I am going to die, Felton,” announced Josiah Bartram, in a crackly monotone. “I have talked to my lawyer. I have talked to my niece—”
Doctor Shores slowly shook his head.
“You will recover, Josiah,” he said. “Your condition is improving right along. You are a young man yet. This illness will not continue much longer.”