But before Bennett could answer there was a cry.
"It is the servant," exclaimed Lloyd quickly. "She has been watching—there in the room with him."
"Nurse—Miss Searight," came the cry, "quick—there is something wrong—I don't know—oh, hurry!"
"Do you hear?" cried Lloyd. "It is the crisis—he may be dying. Oh, Ward, it is the man you love! We can save him." She stamped her foot in the frenzy of her emotion, her hands twisting together. "I will go. I forbid you to keep—to hinder—to—to, oh, what is to become of us? If you love me, if you love him—Ward, will you let me go?"
Bennett put his hands over his ears, his eyes closed. In the horror of that moment, when he realised that no matter how he might desire it he could not waver in his resolution, it seemed to him that his reason must give way. But he set his back to the door, his hand gripped tight upon the knob, and through his set teeth his answer came as before:
"No."
"Nurse—Miss Searight, where are you? Hurry, oh, hurry!"
"Will you let me go?"
"No."
Lloyd caught at his hand, shut so desperately upon the knob, striving to loosen his clasp. She hardly knew what she was doing; she threw her arms about his neck, imploring, commanding, now submissive, now imperious, her voice now vibrating with anger, now trembling with passionate entreaty.