"She will probably have several periods of consciousness," the surgeon said to the inspector, "but there is no chance of life for her. If you think that she really is the widow of Sir Geoffrey Holt, who has been so sought after of late, perhaps you had better arrange for her depositions to be taken next time she comes round."
It was half-past eight before Lucille arrived, and later still before Lavender opened her eyes again and saw her loyal servant kneeling near her. She smiled, contented, but the worst ordeal was to come.
"Melville?" she whispered.
"He isn't here," they answered. "He said he would come at once, but something has detained him by the way."
Someone stooped over her: a tall, grey man with kind eyes set in a stern face, and he was speaking slowly and earnestly, so that each softly uttered word conveyed its full meaning. He told her that the end was very near; that if she had anything to say the minutes left in which to say it were but few, and that if she knew anything about her husband and his end it was her duty to reveal it all to man before she faced the judgment seat of God.
"Melville?" she said again, and in this supreme moment it was only his absence that distressed her. He had promised not to fail her when she should send for him, and now he was breaking his word because he could not trust her not to betray him.
"You understand?" the grey man said. "You are going to tell me everything you know, and I will write it down. The truth, dear lady, as before the God who is calling you away to-night."
"Ralph Ashley is innocent," she said, and by degrees the broken story was told; told in faint outline, but with sufficient clearness to make corroboration easy afterwards. She told of her early marriage to Sir Geoffrey and of her flight from him; of her marriage to Mr. Sinclair, made in all good faith, and of his death; of her visit to Fairbridge Manor on the fatal day from idle curiosity to see what might have been her home; of Sir Geoffrey's murder by the man with whom she went, and how she only chanced to be a witness of it because she was frightened by the storm; of how she saw the weapon dropped into the river, and was intimidated into silence afterwards; how she had always believed that an innocent man could not be convicted, and that Ralph would be set free and the true facts never be known. She told it all, but never gave a clue as to who her companion on that momentous occasion was.
On that point she was obdurate. It was her duty to prevent the innocent man from suffering, but she could not be brought to believe that it was her duty to bring the guilty one to justice. That was her code of morals, and while she was true to it in this last hour by doing what she could to set Ralph free, she would not be false to it by breaking her solemn promise to Melville.
"I'm very tired," she said, and in sheer compassion they let her be. She contrived to affix some sort of signature to the statement they read over to her, and then the others withdrew, leaving her to the care of the nurses and doctors and the company of Lucille, who loved her so.