The physician beckoned to the nurse. The woman approached and assisted with the hypodermic. Josiah Bartram’s arm was bared, and the injection was completed.
Grace Bartram looked on. She could see the pockmarks of previous injections upon that pale, weak arm. This treatment had been utilized at intervals during Josiah Bartram’s confining illness.
“You will talk with Hurley Adams,” continued the old man in his monotonous voice. “Talk with him, Felton. See that all the details of my plans are carried through. I want a quiet burial, in my own mausoleum — beyond the house — quiet — and soon — when — I die—”
The voice faded away as Josiah Bartram rested more easily upon his pillows. His pale eyelids had closed. Doctor Shores arose and gave instructions to the nurse. He turned to the door and gripped Grace’s arm, signifying for the girl to come with him.
Mahinda stepped aside as the two made their exit. The Hindu closed the door. Josiah Bartram, resting comfortably, was alone, in charge of the nurse.
“No cause for worry,” remarked the physician, as they reached the foot of the stairway. “I look for rapid improvement. We must humor him if he continues to talk about his plans—”
The ring of the doorbell interrupted the speech. Mahinda appeared upon the stairway in answer to the call.
Both Grace Bartram and Doctor Felton Shores watched as the servant opened the front door to admit a tall, dignified man, whose white hair formed a conspicuous mop as he removed his hat.
THE visitor was Hurley Adams, Josiah Bartram’s attorney. He bowed to Grace Bartram, and nodded to Doctor Shores. He approached, and began to question the pair.
“Is Josiah worse?” asked Adams.
“His condition is serious,” admitted Shores, “but I see no cause for immediate alarm.”
“It worried me this afternoon,” asserted Adams. “His constant thought of death — his desire that I would respect his dying wishes—”
“That,” said the physician seriously, “is an unfortunate point. Sometimes, the positive feeling of death does bring an unexpected demise.”
“This is a great burden for you, Grace,” said the lawyer, turning to the girl.
“I’m bearing up,” responded the girl. “Willard Saybrook will be here within a few days. It will be good to have him here. Uncle likes him.”
“Your fiance is a fine young man,” agreed Adams. “I am glad that Saybrook is coming.”
He motioned toward the stairs as he turned to Shores, indicating that he would like to see the patient.
The physician nodded, and Adams ascended. He passed the nurse at the top of the stairway.
Three or four minutes elapsed before Adams reappeared. He tiptoed down the stairs and spoke to Shores and Grace Bartram.
“Resting quietly,” said the lawyer, with a gentle smile. “I watched him as he slept, but did not disturb him.”
While Adams spoke, the nurse came across the hall. She had been to the kitchen to obtain a pitcher of water. She went up to the sick room. Adams, in the meantime, bowed good night. Mahinda opened the front door, and closed it after the departing attorney.
While Shores talked with Grace Bartram, Mahinda went in the direction of the kitchen. Thus the physician and the girl were alone when a scream came from the top of the stairs.
“Doctor Shores!” The nurse was calling. “Doctor Shores! Come at once!”
The woman’s call showed consternation. There was a moment of breathlessness; then Shores headed up the stairs. Grace Bartram followed with all haste. They found the nurse at the door of the sick room.
They saw the cause of the alarm.
JOSIAH BARTRAM was sitting upright in bed. His eyes were gleaming in a wild, frenzied stare. His arms were doubled across his chest. His fingers were gripping his throat, and he was gasping broken utterances.
“I am dying!” Bartram screamed hoarsely. “Dying — dying as I said I would die! Grace! Remember! Remember!”
Felton Shores was by the bed, gripping the old man’s shoulders. Bartram’s terrible gaze centered itself upon the physician.
Mahinda had appeared at the door; now, behind him, arrived the face of Hurley Adams. The old lawyer had heard the nurse’s cries from the street, and had rushed back into the house. Bartram’s eyes, the optics of a madman, could not see the faces at the door.
Dry lips parted in a hoarse chortle. The old man’s expression was uncanny. He seemed to be visioning a world beyond — a new existence that the others could not see. Delirium caught him in a convulsive wave.
His next words were the vague, mad statements of thoughts that were known to him alone.
“I feel death!” was Josiah Bartram’s cry. “Here — at my throat! Death! Fingers of death! See? See? Fingers of death!”
The old man’s hands were clutching his own throat. A convulsive shudder racked Josiah Bartram’s frame.
As Doctor Shores grasped the thin wrists, a long, weird gasp came from the old man’s lips. Josiah Bartram’s hands dropped away. His body wavered and fell back upon the pillows. His head tilted crazily, and his eyes set in a glassy stare.
Those in the room formed a strange, stunned tableau, as they viewed the form that had so suddenly become a motionless object.
Hurley Adams was tense as his hand pressed Grace Bartram’s arm. The girl’s eyes were fixed in horror as they viewed Josiah Bartram’s face. The nurse was gripping the post at the foot of the bed. Mahinda, the Hindu, stood just within the doorway, as silent as a statue.
Even Doctor Felton Shores was transfixed by the strange suddenness of the old man’s collapse. He held Josiah Bartram’s wrists in a cold, firm grasp. It was the startling drooping of those wrists that brought the physician to his senses.
The first to regain his control, Doctor Shores leaned over the body in the bed and made a slow, deliberate examination, while the others watched, unspeaking. Rising mechanically, the physician turned and looked from one face to another. His eyes reflected the thought that was in every mind.
“Nothing can be done now,” declared Doctor Shores, in a solemn tone. “Human aid is ended. Josiah Bartram is dead.”
Grace Bartram repressed a sob. Hurley Adams tightened his lips. The nurse shuddered. Mahinda, by the doorway, remained as stolid as before.
Something had been said that caused this tenseness. Not the statement of Doctor Shores — indeed, the physician’s announcement had almost brought relief. The words that were in every mind were the words that Josiah Bartram himself had uttered.
“Fingers of death!”
Those were the dying words that had come from crackling lips. Words that might have been brought by delirium; words that might hold a sinister meaning.
“Fingers of death!”
CHAPTER II. OUT OF THE PAST
AFFAIRS in the town of Holmsford were of little interest to New Yorkers; but the news of Josiah Bartram’s death came very definitely to the attention of one resident of Manhattan.
In a high office of the Badger Building, a chubby-faced man was going over a stack of newspapers.
Some of these were New York dailies; but there were representative journals from other cities. Oddly enough, there were a few from towns of comparatively small importance.
Having finished his perusal of the more important newspapers, the reader glanced through the others. The last that he examined was the Holmsford daily. One of the first items that attracted his attention was the account of Josiah Bartram’s passing.
The chubby-faced man carefully clipped the story. He folded it and placed it in an envelope, along with other notices. His task finished, he sealed the envelope and arose from his desk. He passed through an outer office; then through the door to the corridor.