“How terrible!” exclaimed Webster. “Do you mean to tell me there is no hope?”
“Conscientiously, I can hold out none,” answered the doctor. “It is, indeed, a sad case. But can you go to her now? My brougham is waiting for me, and I am going to drive straight back to her house, and if you will come with me I shall be glad—for, poor soul, I fear she is drifting fast away.”
“I will go,” said Webster, unutterably shocked. It seemed almost impossible, this sudden change. The bright woman of last night; the gay rooms, the jests, the laughter, and now to hear of the approaching end.
He scarcely spoke after he entered the doctor’s carriage. He covered his face with one of his hands, and sat thinking what the death of Kathleen Weir might mean. A fair face—sweet, serene, and sad—rose before his mental vision, and unconsciously a sort of groan broke from his lips.
“Did you know her well?” asked the doctor, in a commiserating tone.
“You mean Miss Weir?” answered Webster, trying to rouse himself. “Yes, I have known her for some time.”
“She has seen her lawyer,” continued the doctor, “and made her will. But I do not suppose she has much to leave; these actresses as a rule spend their money as fast as they get it.”
“I do not know,” said Webster, indifferently, for he was not thinking of the actress’ will.
The doctor after this made a remark occasionally, and Webster just replied; and presently the carriage stopped before the handsome mansion where poor Kathleen Weir’s flat was situated. Her own rooms were wrecked, almost everything in them having been destroyed before the fire was extinguished. But they had carried her to another flat in the same house, and to a darkened chamber in this suite of rooms the doctor now proceeded, followed by Webster, who was deeply moved.
The doctor faintly rapped when they reached the door of the apartment where Kathleen lay, and it was immediately opened by a professional nurse.