''He is cut too bad. Look at him. It would bring them here. There is too much blood.''
There was. It now almost filled the china pot. Gentleman''s moans had begun to grow fainter.
''Damn you!'' he said softly. He had begun to cry. ''Who is there who''ll help me? I''ve money, I swear it. Who is there? Maud?''
Her cheek was almost as pale as his, her lip quite white.
''Maud? Maud?'' he said.
She shook her head. Then she said, in a whisper: ''I am sorry. I am sorry.''
''God damn you! Help me! Oh!'' He coughed. There came, in the spittle at his mouth, a thread of crimson; and then, a moment later, a gush of blood. He raised a feeble hand to it—saw the fresh red upon his lingers—and his look grew wild. He reached, out of the circle of lamp-light, and began to struggle, as if to raise himself from the chair. He reached for Charles. ''Charley?'' he said, the blood bubbling and bursting about the word. He clutched at Charles''s coat and made to draw him closer. But Charles would not come. He had stood all this time in the shadows, a look of fixed and awful terror on his face. Now he saw the bubbles at Gentleman''s lips and whiskers, Gentleman''s red and slippery hand gripping the coarse blue collar of his jacket, and he twitched like a hare. He turned and ran. He ran, the way I had brought him—along the passage to Mr Ibbs''s shop. And before we could call to him or go to him to make him stop, we heard him tear open the door then shriek, like a girl, into Lant Street: