"She is asleep," she said in a low, cold voice.
There was a sound as of movement in the bed.
"I am awake," some one said. "If it is Stephen Murdoch's son, let him come here."
Murdoch went to the bedside and stood looking down at the woman who returned his gaze. She was a woman whose last hours upon earth were passing rapidly. Her beauty was now only something terrible to see; her breath came fast and short; her eyes met his with a look of anguish.
"Send the girl away," she said to him.
Low as her voice was, the girl heard it. She rose without turning to right or left and went out of the room.
Until the door closed the woman still lay looking up into her visitor's face, but as soon as it was shut she spoke laboriously.
"What is your name?" she asked.
He told her.
"You are like your father," she said, and then closed her eyes and lay so for a moment. "It is a mad thing I am doing," she said, knitting her brows with weak fretfulness, and still lying with closed eyes. "I—I do not know—why I should have done it—only that it is the last thing. It is not that I am fond of the girl—or that she is fond of me," she opened her eyes with a start. "Is the door shut?" she said. "Keep her out of the room."