When he was dressed, he went up-stairs as usual to Driscoll, knocked lightly, and, without waiting, went in. Mary Burne was still there, kneeling by the bedside. It flashed over Gano that it had been something like this very picture that had first set him thinking about Mary Burne. But the spell had lost its potency; something had happened; some chord of sympathy had snapped. He could think of his friend whole-heartedly now, without a woman's thrusting her face between them. Driscoll was asleep this morning, just as he had been that other time when Gano had found Mary Burne worn out with watching by the bedside; but his face was hidden. Mary stirred and turned round. Gano started. No sleep weighed down her eyelids; her eyes were wide and quick-glancing, but seemed unseeing; the agonized face was pinched and gray-white, like chalk.
"What is it? What—"
Gano sprang forward to the bed. Driscoll's face was no longer in the shadow now.
"He's gone," said Mary.
"Not dead?"
"Yes, dead."
She got up slowly, staggering a little. Her cloak was round her. She went unsteadily to the opposite side of the room and picked up her hat. She seemed to forget to put it on, and stood with it aimlessly in her hands, those strained, bright-glancing eyes moving uncannily in the drawn white mask of a face. Gano had flung himself down by the bed. He laid his hand over Driscoll's. It was cold.
"When did it happen?" Gano asked; and as the word "happen" left his lips, he started up and stared at the woman.
"About four o'clock," she said, going in that blind way to the table.
He had the impulse to rush forward and seize her by the shoulders. He would force those restless eyes to meet his steadily for once, and give up their secret; but she was counting some gold pieces out of her purse, doing it by the instinct of touch, while her roving, animal-like glance seemed to dash itself against window, wall, and door, seeking an escape.