"Cecil—Cecil!" she called softly. "It's I—Sophy. I'm so afraid you're ill. Won't you speak to me, Cecil?"
There was no answer. She tried again and again. Presently she heard that low, ominous laugh.
"It's no use," she whispered, drawing away in terror. "Have you told Doctor Bellamy?"
"No, madam. No one but you. I didn't like to."
"I know, Gaynor," she said, still whispering. "It's hard to have to tell—but I'm afraid we ought."
"Mightn't we wait? Just a bit longer, madam? I'll keep watch...."
Sophy hesitated.
"Well, then," she said reluctantly, "I shall not sleep, either."
She thought a moment; then she said:
"Bring me a few of Mr. Chesney's cigarettes, Gaynor. Mine have given out. Bring me some of his cigarette-papers, too. I'll roll them smaller, as he's been doing lately."