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He had not meant to tell her. It was against his will that he did so; but he felt impelled to do it. For her peace of mind it seemed imperative that she should understand.

And so, in a few words, he told her of West’s abortive attempt to plunge a second time into the black depths from which he had so recently escaped, of the man’s absolutely selfless devotion, of his rigid refusal to suffer even her love for him to move him from this attitude.

Cynthia listened with her bright eyes fixed unswervingly upon Babbacombe’s face. She made no comment of any sort when he ended. She only pressed his hand.

He remained with her for some time, and when he got up to go at length, it was with manifest reluctance. He lingered beside her after he had spoken his farewell, as though he still had something to say.

“You will come again soon,” said Cynthia.

“To-morrow,” he answered. “And–Cynthia, there is just one thing I want to say.”

She looked up at him questioningly.

“Only this,” he said. “You sent for me because you wanted a friend. I want you from now onward to treat me and to think of me in that light only. As I now see things, I do not think I shall ever be anything more to you than just that. Remember it, won’t you, and make use of me in any way that you wish. I will gladly do anything.”

The words went straight from his heart to hers. Cynthia’s eyes filled with sudden tears. She reached out and clasped his hand very closely.

“Dear Jack,” she said softly; “you’re just the best friend I have in the world, and I sha’n’t forget it–ever.”

He called early on the following day, and received the information that she was keeping her bed by the doctor’s orders. Later in the day he went again, and found that the doctor was with her. He decided to wait, and paced up and down the drawing-room for nearly an hour. Eventually the doctor came.

Babbacombe knew him slightly, and was not surprised when, at sight of him in the doorway, the doctor turned aside at once, and entered the room.

“Miss Mortimer told me I should probably see you,” he said, “and if I did so, she desired me to tell you everything. I am sorry to say that I think very seriously of the injury. I have just been persuading her to go into a private nursing-home. This is no place to be ill in, and I shall have to perform a slight operation to-morrow which will necessitate the use of an anaesthetic.”

“An operation!” Babbacombe exclaimed, aghast.

“It is absolutely imperative,” the doctor said, “to get at the seat of the poison. I am making every effort to prevent the mischief spreading any further. Should the operation fail, no power on earth will save her hand. It may mean the arm as well.”

Babbacombe listened to further explanations, sick at heart.

“When do you propose to move her?” he asked presently.

“At once. I am going now to make arrangements.”

“May I go in and see her if she will admit me?”

“I don’t advise it to-night. She is excited and overstrung. To-morrow, perhaps, if all goes well. Come round to my house at two o’clock, and I will let you know.”

But Babbacombe did not see her the next day, for it was found advisable to keep her absolutely quiet. The doctor was very reticent, but he gathered from his manner that he entertained very grave doubts as to the success of his treatment.

On the day following he telephoned to Babbacombe to meet him at the home in the afternoon.

Babbacombe arrived before the time appointed, and spent half an hour in sick suspense, awaiting the doctor’s coming.

The latter entered at last, and greeted him with a serious face.

“I am going to let you see Miss Mortimer,” he said. “What I feared from the outset has taken place. The mischief was neglected too long at the beginning. There is nothing for it but amputation of the hand. And it must be performed without delay.”