And while he stared in wonder, Brian Shaynon seemed suddenly to lose
the strength of his limbs. His legs shook beneath him as with a palsy;
and then, knees buckling, he tottered and plunged headlong from top to
bottom of the staircase.
XX
NOVEMBER
"E's gone," the butler announced.
Kneeling beside the inert body of Brian Shaynon, where it had lodged
on a broad, low landing three steps from the foot of the staircase, he
turned up to P. Sybarite fishy, unemotional eyes in a pasty fat face.
The little man said nothing.
Resting a hand on the newel-post, he looked down unmoved upon the
mortal wreck of him who had been his life's bane. Brian Shaynon lay in
death without majesty; a crumpled and dishevelled ruin of flesh and
clothing, its very insentience suggesting to the morbid fancy of the
little Irishman something foul and obscene. Brian Shaynon living had
been to him a sight less intolerable....
"Dead," the butler affirmed, releasing the pulseless leaden wrist, and
rising. "I presume I'd best call 'is doctor, 'adn't I, sir?"
P. Sybarite nodded indifferently. Profound thought enwrapped him like
a mantle.
The butler lingered, the seals of professional reticence broken by
this strange and awful accident. But there was no real emotion in his
temper--only curiosity, self-interest, the impulse of loquacity.
"Stroke," he observed thoughtfully, fingering his pendulous jowls and
staring; "that's w'at it was--a stroke, like.
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