Mr. Juxon had entered, too, while Mr. Ambrose remained outside with the detective, who had been frightened into submission by the physician's last threat. The squire saw what was happening and paced the room in the greatest agitation, wringing his hands together and biting his lips. John had closed the door and came to the foot of the bed and looked at Goddard's face. After a pause, Doctor Longstreet spoke. "We might possibly restore him to consciousness for a moment--" "Don't!" cried Mary Goddard, starting as though some one had struck her. "That is--" she added quickly, in broken tones, "unless he can live!" "No," answered the physician, gravely, but looking hard at the unhappy woman. "He is dying." Goddard's staring eyes were glazed and white. Twice and three times he gasped for breath, and then lay quite still. It was all over. Mary gazed at his dead face for one instant, then a faint smile parted her lips: she raised one hand to her forehead as though dazed. "He is safe now," she murmured very faintly. Her limbs relaxed suddenly, and she fell straight backwards. Charles Juxon, who was watching her, sprang forward and caught her in his arms. Then he bore her from the room, swiftly, while John Short who was as white and speechless as the rest opened the door. "You may go in now," said Juxon as he passed Booley and Mr. Ambrose in the passage, with his burden in his arms. A few steps farther on he met Holmes the butler, who carried a telegram on a salver. "For Mr. Short, sir," said the impassive servant, not appearing to notice anything strange in the fact that his master was carrying the inanimate body of Mary Goddard. "He is in there--go in," said Juxon hurriedly as he went on his way. The detective and the vicar had already entered the room where the dead convict was lying. All stood around the bed, gazing at his pale face as he lay. "A telegram for Mr. Short," said Holmes from the door. John started and took the despatch from the butler's hands. He hastily tore it open, glanced at the contents and thrust it into his pocket. Every one looked round. "What is it, John?" whispered the vicar, who was nearest to him. "Oh--nothing. I am first in the Tripos, that is all," answered John very simply, as though it were not a matter of the least consequence. Through all those months of untiring labour, through privation and anxiety, through days of weariness and nights of study, he had looked forward to the triumph, often doubting but never despairing. But he had little guessed that the news of victory would reach him at such a moment. It was nothing, he said; and indeed as he stood with the group of pale and awe-struck spectators by the dead man's bed, he felt that the greatest thing which had ever happened to him was as nothing compared with the tragedy of which he had witnessed the last act.