And a minute after, Major O'Neill and Arthur Slowe became aware that Dangerfield had glided behind them, and was looking serenely, like themselves, at the Dublin doctor's carriage and smoking team.

The light from Sturk's bed-room window, and the red glare of the footman's torch, made two little trembling reflections in the silver spectacles as he stood in the shade, peering movelessly over their shoulders.
''Tis a sorry business, gentlemen,' he said in a stern, subdued tone.
'Seven children and a widow.

He's not dead yet, though: whatever Toole might do, the Dublin doctor would not stay with a dead man; time's precious.

I can't describe how I pity that poor soul, his wife--what's to become of her and her helpless brood I know not.' Slowe grunted a dismal assent, and the major, with a dolorous gaze, blew a thin stream of tobacco-smoke into the night air, which floated off like the ghost of a sigh towards the glimmering window of Sturk's bed-room.

So they all grew silent.