Wimpole was beside her and held her passive hand. It twitched painfully as it lay in his, and every agonized movement of it shot through him, but he could not say anything at first. Besides, she knew he was there and would help her if he could. At last he spoke his thought.
"I will keep him from you," he said. "He shall not come near you."
Her hand tightened upon his, instantly, and she sat up in her chair, turning her face to him, quite white in the dusk, by the open window.
"Then you know?" she asked.
"Yes. It is in the Paris paper to-day. But it is only a report. I do not believe it is true."
She rose, mastering herself, as she withdrew her hand, and steadied herself a moment against the chair beside him.
"It is true," she said. "He has recovered. He has written to me."
Wimpole felt as if he had been condemned to death without warning.
"When?" he managed to ask.
"I got the letter this afternoon."