There's plenty to do here; but if I can be any more use out there, why, Wallstein can stay here, and--" He got no further, for Wallstein, to whom he had just referred, and who had been sitting strangely impassive, with his eyes approvingly fixed on Byng, half rose from his chair and fell forward, his thick, white hands sprawling on the mahogany table, his fat, pale face striking the polished wood with a thud.

In an instant they were all on their feet and at his side.
Barry Whalen lifted up his head and drew him back into the chair, then three of them lifted him upon a sofa.

Barry's hand felt the breast of the prostrate figure, and Byng's fingers sought his wrist.

For a moment there was a dreadful silence, and then Byng and Whalen looked at each other and nodded.
"Brandy!" said Byng, peremptorily.
"He's not dead ?" whispered some one.
"Brandy--quick," urged Byng, and, lifting up the head a little, he presently caught the glass from Whalen's hand and poured some brandy slowly between the bluish lips.

"Some one ring for Krool," he added.
A moment later Krool entered.