Pushing the others before him, Freddie moved toward the door into the hall. At the threshold he paused to say:
"Shall I bring the papers when they come?"
She hesitated. "No," she answered without opening her eyes.
"Send them in. I want to read them, myself."
She lay quiet, Clélie stroking her brow. From time to time a shudder passed over her. When, in answer to a knock, Clélie took in the bundle of newspapers, she sat up in bed and read the meager dispatches. The long accounts were made long by the addition of facts about Brent's life. The short accounts added nothing to what she already knew. When she had read all, she sank back among the pillows and closed her eyes. A long, long silence in the room. Then a soft knock at the door. Clélie left the bedside to answer it, returned to say:
"Mr. Freddie wishes to come in with a telegram."
Susan started up wildly. Her eyes were wide and staring—a look of horror. "No—no!" she cried. Then she compressed her lips, passed her hand slowly over her brow. "Yes—tell him to come in."
Her gaze was upon the door until it opened, leaped to his face, to his eyes, the instant he appeared. He was smiling—hopefully, but not gayly.
"Garvey says"—and he read from a slip of paper in his hand—" 'None of the wounds necessarily mortal. Doctors refuse to commit themselves, but I believe he has a good chance.'"
He extended the cablegram that she might read for herself, and said, "He'll win, my dear. He has luck, and lucky people always win in big things."
Her gaze did not leave his face. One would have said that she had not heard, that she was still seeking what she had admitted him to learn. He sat down where Clélie had been, and said: