“I, TOO, AM FREE.”
“No need to tell me,” said Percy Levant in a voice inaudible to the marquis. “I know!”
Doris sank back into her chair and covered her face with her hands. The marquis leaned forward, regarding her with alarm.
“What is it? What is the matter?” he inquired, agitatedly. “What have I said——” He broke down and began to cough and tremble, and the valet hurried to his side; but the old man waved him away with feeble savageness.
“What is the matter with her?” he demanded of Percy Levant as imperiously as his weak voice would let him.
“Miss Marlowe is not strong, and the heat of the room——Come, Doris,” he broke off more gently, and he drew her hand through his arm.
She was going with a glance—a glance of reproach—at the thin, wrinkled face; then her heart seemed to yearn, and she touched the wasted hand stretched out to her.
“Heaven forgive you, my lord!” she murmured, with infinite sadness, and allowed Percy Levant to lead her away.
The marquis almost rose in his alarm and anxiety.
“Where are you going? What have I said? Come back——” Then he fell on his side gasping for breath, and the terrified valet sprang to the bell and sent for the doctor.