Langholm looked at his companion in the confluence of lights at the Sloane Street corner. The pale face was alight with passion, the sunken eyes ablaze. "I cannot tell you," he answered, shortly.
"Is it your own name?"
"Good God, no!"
And Langholm laughed harshly.
"Will you not even tell me where she lives?"
"I cannot, without her leave; but if you like I will tell her about you."
There was no answer as they drove on. Then of a sudden Langholm's arm was seized and crushed by bony fingers.
"I am dying," the low voice whispered hoarsely in his ear. "Can't you see it for yourself? I shall never get better; it might be a year or two, it may be weeks. But I want to see her again and make sure. Yes, I love her! There is no sense in denying it. But it is all on my side, and I am dying, and she has married again! What harm can it do anybody if I see her once more?"
The sunken eyes were filled with tears. There were more tears in the hollow voice. Langholm was deeply touched.
"My dear fellow," he said, "I will let her know. No, no, not that, of course! But I will write to her at once—to-night! Will that not do?"