The voice beside me stopped. Some one pushed up a chair for Sanderson and he sat down. There was applause. I stood up and then struck by a thought, whispered: 'Would you like to answer a few questions?'  
'Yes, yes. Certainly,' he said.
 
'Not too tired to answer them?'
 
'No—no.'
 
I had a little strip of notes in my hand and I thought of underlining one or two points in this tremendous project of a school he had spread before his audience before I let in the questioners. I began by saying that the lecture had been a little[Pg 171] hard to follow but that it would repay following into the remotest corners of its meaning. Then I heard a little commotion¹ behind me and turned round to see what was the matter. Sanderson had slipped from his chair on to the platform and was lying on his back breathing hoarsely². His collar and tie were removed forthwith. There were several doctors on the platform with us and they set to work upon him. I hesitated for a moment and then declared the meeting at an end, and asked the audience to disperse³ as speedily as possible. I thought it was an epileptic fit and I had no sense of Sanderson's impending⁴ death. I had never seen anything of the sort before. I could not believe it when they told me he was dead.
 
The windows of the hot and sultry room were opened and most of the people made their way out, but the reporters remained and one or two persons of the curious type who hung about vaguely

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