His voice rang in the roof. Enid flew to his side and placed her hand upon his lips.
"Your mother is asleep, Frank," she said. "She has had no sleep for three nights. A long rest may be the means of preserving her sanity. Why did you come here?"
The young man laughed silently. It was ghastly mirth to see, and it brought the tears into Enid's eyes. She had forgotten the danger of the young man's presence.
"I heard that Chris was ill," he said. "They told me that she was dying. And I could not keep away. And now I have come too late. Oh, Chris, Chris!"
He fell on his knees by the side of the coffin, his frame shaken by tearless sobs. Enid bit her lips to keep back the words that rose to them. She would have given much to have spoken the truth. But at any hazard she must remain silent. She waited till the paroxysm of grief had passed away, then she touched the intruder gently on the shoulder.
"There is great danger for you in this house," she said.
"What do I care for danger when Chris lies yonder?"
"But, dear Frank, there are others to consider besides yourself. There is your mother, for instance. Oh, you ought not to have come here to-night. If your father knew!"
"My father? He would be the last person in the world to know. And what cares he about anything, so long as he has his prints and his paintings? He has no feelings, no heart, no soul, I may say."
"Frank, you must go at once. Do you know that Reginald Henson is here? He has ears like a hare; it will be nothing less than a miracle unless he hears your voice. And then—"