He walked over towards her writing bureau and picked up a railway guide.
"Perhaps you are right," he said. "There is a train at twelve-fifteen. We have time to catch it if you get ready at once."
Without a word she left the room. She guessed how it was. Gerald had taken the journey when he was not in a fit state to travel, and on arrival at Dover had been obliged to take to bed.
This was exactly what had happened. Even in the comparatively short space of time which had elapsed since he had left her, the life he had lead had been more than enough to set up the disease to which he had always been predisposed. In the face of all his doctor's orders he had insisted upon coming to England as soon as ever he had regained sufficient strength to enable him to get about. And the result was as they had predicted. He had caught a severe chill which, on arrival at Dover, had forced him to succumb. Within forty-eight hours he was in the throes of an attack of double pneumonia.
When she saw him first she hardly recognised him. All the youth seemed to have gone from him. Around the mouth, where had always lurked the sunniest of smiles, were now nothing but the heaviest of lines. His cheeks were sunken and his hands like claws. The hectic flush of fever was on his face.
He reached out to greet her as she entered the room, and a faint expression of pleasure parted his parched lips.
"Miriam—forgive!"
She laid her cool hand on his brow.
"I am here, dear, to show that I forgive."
"Till the end?" His eyes sought hers imploringly.