The glory vanished. He lay once more a sick man in a hired chamber, longing for the dull English dawn.
At eight o’clock came the doctor. He would allow only a word or two to be uttered, and his visit was brief. Reardon was chiefly anxious to have news of the child, but for this he would have to wait.
At ten Amy entered the bedroom. Reardon could not raise himself, but he stretched out his hand and took hers, and gazed eagerly at her. She must have been weeping, he felt sure of that, and there was an expression on her face such as he had never seen there.
‘How is Willie?’
‘Better, dear; much better.’
He still searched her face.
‘Ought you to leave him?’
‘Hush! You mustn’t speak.’
Tears broke from her eyes, and Reardon had the conviction that the child was dead.
‘The truth, Amy!’