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"In any case, we shall call in a doctor. At once! Immediately!"

He pealed the bell.

"That isn't any use," Lina told him from some immense lonely height of superior knowledge, "what good can a doctor do? Doctors can't bring dead people back to life."

The maid came in.

"Go down-stairs," Heinrich shouted at her, "go downstairs immediately and send for a doctor! Monsieur is seriously ill."

"Monsieur is dead," Lina suddenly contradicted in a loud strong voice that made them both start.

The maid immediately burst into hysterical, violent sobbing. Heinrich, swearing, took her by the shoulders and pushed her out of the room. He went over to Lina, who continued to sit, very erect, her feet crossed, in all the state of her big armchair. He took her hand and patted it awkwardly. He began, in a soothing tone:

"Let us try to think how and when this frightful thing could have happened. . . . When did you last see him? Just before we left for the Plaza de Toros?"

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, looked vaguely at him, but said nothing. He waited for a moment, then, as she still remained silent, he continued, half to himself:

"He must have died shortly afterward, perhaps while we were still on our way. And yet this morning, when I saw him, he looked as always. Very often I have seen him appear more tired."

"It was the heat," Lina pronounced abruptly.

"The heat?" Heinrich repeated stupidly. His own face was streaming with perspiration, but she herself looked so pinched, so bleak, so frozen, that it was really difficult for him to believe that they were either of them stifling in the fury of a tropical summer.

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