The lovers were alone.
It was an oppressive night, almost like summer, and Penelope, concerned for her sweetheart's comfort, insisted that he take off his heavy coat, and draw up an easy chair by her bedside.
They tried to talk of pleasant things—the lovely flowers he had sent her—how well she was looking—but it was no use. The weight of the approaching crisis was upon both of them.
“Oh, Chris, how we go on pretending—up to the very last!” she lifted her eyes appealingly. “We know what has happened—what may happen, but—” she drew in her breath sharply and a little shiver ran through her. “I—I'm afraid.”
He took her hand strongly in his and with all a lover's ardor and tenderness tried to comfort her. Then, rather clumsily, he showed her the automatic writing, not quite sure whether to present this as a thing that he believed in or not.
Penelope studied the large, scrawled words.
“How wonderful!” she murmured. “I remember vaguely writing something, but I had no idea what it was. My mother! It must be true! It's her handwriting. She was watching over us, dear—she is watching over us still. That ought to give us courage, oughtn't it?”
She glanced nervously at the little gilt clock that was ticking quietly over the fireplace. Ten minutes to twelve!
“What is this danger, that she speaks of, Chris? What is it—that you are carrying?”
The captain's answer was partly an evasion. He really did not know what danger was referred to, unless it could be a small flask from the laboratory with a gas specimen for Dr. Owen that he had left in the other room in his coat, but this was in a little steel container and could do no harm.