There was no answer. Lexy crossed the room to the window and looked out. The balcony, too, was dim, with Venetian blinds drawn down on every side, and on a narrow cot lay Muriel Quelton. There was a bandage over her forehead and covering her hair, and under it her face had a mystic and terrible beauty. She was as white as a ghost, with great dark circles beneath her eyes; and she was so still—so utterly still—that Lexy was stricken with terror.
Captain Grey was sitting beside her in a low chair, holding one of her lifeless hands, and Lexy saw on his face such anguish as she had never looked upon before.
“My dear!” he said again.
Her weary eyes opened and looked up at him. Then the shadow of a smile crossed her face.
“Stay!” she whispered.
Lexy drew nearer. Tears were running down her cheeks. She tried to read the nurse’s face, but she could not.
“How is—she—getting on?” she asked, speaking very low.
“Lexy!” came a voice from the cot, almost inaudible. “Take it—the top drawer—of the bureau—for you.”
“But do you mean—I don’t understand!” cried Lexy.
“Hush, please!” said the nurse severely. “Mrs. Quelton is not to be excited.”