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Babbacombe said something inarticulate that resolved itself with an effort into:

“Have you told her?”

“Yes, I have.” The doctor’s voice was stern. “And she absolutely refuses to consent to it. I have given her till to-morrow morning to make up her mind. After that–” He paused a moment, and looked Babbacombe straight in the face. “After that,” he said, with emphasis, “it will be too late.”

When Babbacombe entered Cynthia’s presence a few minutes later, he walked as a man dazed. He found her lying among pillows, with the sunlight streaming over her, transforming her brown hair into a mass of sparkling gold. The old quick, gracious smile welcomed him as he bent over her. There were deep shadows about her eyes, but they were wonderfully bright. The hand she gave him was as cold as ice, despite the flush upon her cheeks.

“You have been told?” she questioned. “Yes, I see you have. Now, don’t preach to me, Jack–dear Jack. It’s too shocking to talk about. Can you believe it? I can’t. I’ve always been so clever with my hands. Have you a pencil? I want you to take down a wire for me.”

In her bright, imperious way, she dominated him. It was well-nigh impossible to realise that she was dangerously ill.

He sat down beside her with pencil and paper.

“Address it to Mr. West,” said Cynthia, her eyes following his fingers. “Yes. And now put just this: ‘I am sick, and wanting you. Will you come?–Cynthia.’ And write the address. Do you think he’ll come, Jack?”

“Let me add ‘Urgent,'” he said.

“No, Jack. You are not to. Add nothing. If he doesn’t come for that, he will never come at all. And I sha’n’t wait for him,” she added under her breath.

She seemed impatient for him to depart and despatch the message, but when he took his leave her eyes followed him with a wistful gratitude that sent a thrill to his heart. She had taken him at his word, and had made him her friend in need.

X

“If he doesn’t come for that, he will never come at all.”

Over and over Cynthia whispered the words to herself as she lay, with her wide, shining eyes upon the door, waiting. She was a gambler who had staked all on the final throw, and she was watching, weak and ill as she was after long suffering, watching restlessly, persistently, for the result of that last great venture. Surely he would come–surely–surely!

Once she spoke imperiously to the nurse.

“If a gentleman named West calls, I must see him at once, whatever the hour.”

The nurse raised no obstacle. Perhaps she realised that it would do more harm than good to thwart her patient’s caprice.

And so hour after hour Cynthia lay waiting for the answer to her message, and hour followed hour in slow, uneventful procession, bringing her neither comfort nor repose.

At length the doctor came and offered her morphia, but she refused it, with feverish emphasis.

“No, no, no! I don’t want to sleep. I am expecting a friend.”

“Won’t it do in the morning?” he said persuasively.

Her grey eyes flashed eager inquiry up at him.

“He is here?”

The doctor nodded.

“He has been here some time, but I hoped you would settle down. I want you to sleep.”

Sleep! Cynthia almost laughed. How inexplicably foolish were even the cleverest of men!

“I will see him now,” she said. “And, please, alone,” as the doctor made a sign to the nurse.

He moved away reluctantly, and again she almost laughed at his imbecility.

But a minute later she had forgotten everything in the world save that upon which her eyes rested–a short, broad-shouldered man, clean-shaven, with piercing blue eyes that looked straight at her with something–something in their expression that made the heart within her leap and quiver like the strings of an instrument under a master hand.

He came quietly to the bedside, and stood looking down upon her, not uttering a word.