"I
want--to--see him."
"Whom?" asked Mortimer Shelton gently. "Whom do you want to see, my poor
fellow?"
Mr. Vermont pushed his way forward, his face alight with eager sympathy.
"Perhaps I can be of use," he said, "I know him; perhaps he wants to
tell me----"
The jockey raised his head. It seemed as if the soft, smooth voice gave
him strength to speak. He glared at Jasper, then his glance fell on the
pitying face of Leroy. With a sudden light in his eyes, he stretched out
his hand.
"Him--him, the swell--I tell him the race--was--sold! He--Mr.
Vermont----"
His breath came fast in great sobs; he glared from Adrien to Jasper,
then back to Leroy, as if seeking to convey some warning, but in vain;
with the last words, he fell back.
A gentleman pushed his way forward.
"Allow me, I am Doctor Blake," he said, and he knelt down beside the
still form.
"He is dead," he declared solemnly, as he placed his hand on the body.
The crowd fell back still further, with murmurs of horror. There was a
silence, broken at last by Jasper Vermont.
"Dear, dear!" he exclaimed in tones in which, had it not been for the
absurdity of the idea, one might have fancied there was almost a spark
of satisfaction.
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