Monica wandered up and down the dark hall, revolving many things in her mind. What had brought Conrad so suddenly back at this melancholy time of the year? She had believed him abroad with his sister, with whom he seemed to have spent his time since his disappearance early in the spring. What had brought him back now? And why did he so haunt the frowning, treacherous cliffs of Trevlyn? Was he mad? But why did his madness always drive him to this spot? She asked many such questions of herself, but she could answer none of them.
At last Tom came down. His face looked as if carved in flint. She could not read the meaning of his glance.
“Is he dead?” she asked softly.
“He cannot last long. If he has any relations near, they should be telegraphed for.”
“His sister is in Italy, I believe. There is no one else that I know of.”
“Then there is nothing to be done. He is sinking fast. He cannot live many hours. I doubt if he will last the night.”
Monica’s face was pale and grave.
“Poor Conrad!” she said, beneath her breath.
Tom started, and made a quick movement as of repulsion.
“No one could wish him to live,” he began, almost roughly; “he has hardly a whole bone in his body.”