Instinctively Byrne put out his faltering arms; he felt the horrible rigidity of the body and then the coldness of death as their heads knocked together and their faces came into contact.

They reeled, Byrne hugging Tom close to his breast in order not to let him fall with a crash.

He had just strength enough to lower the awful burden gently to the floor--then his head swam, his legs gave way, and he sank on his knees, leaning over the body with his hands resting on the breast of that man once full of generous life, and now as insensible as a stone.
"Dead! my poor Tom, dead," he repeated mentally.

The light of the lamp standing near the edge of the table fell from above straight on the stony empty stare of these eyes which naturally had a mobile and merry expression.
Byrne turned his own away from them.

Tom's black silk neckerchief was not knotted on his breast.