Here she paused on the thick wool mat, and tapped softly, but only to utter a faint hysterical cry, and press her hands to her lips, as if to keep back more, for the act had been one to which she was accustomed, and a thrill ran through her as she realised what she had done, and that the familiar, harsh voice could never again call to her “Come in.”
She turned the handle, and entered the darkened room to walk firmly across to where Gartram lay, and she stood for some minutes gazing at the dimly-seen figure covered by a white sheet, through which the prominent features of his face stood out.
For a moment she looked as if she were about to raise the white linen cover to gaze upon the face of the dead, but she did not stir, only remained there as if turned to stone, as, from out of the gloom, a low groan arose, and for the moment it seemed to her that the sheet moved and the body heaved.
Mary Dillon felt her heart throb as if it had burst the bond which regulated its slow action; a terrible feeling of fear paralysed her, and for a time her sufferings were acute.
Then reason came to her aid.
“He is not dead,” she said; and trembling violently, she ran to the window to draw aside the curtain, looking over her shoulder in a frightened way; but before light could shine in upon the solemn chamber she stopped short.
“Woodham!” she exclaimed, “you here!”
There was a quick rustling sound, and the startled occupant of the room rose from her knees by the dead man’s side, and stood shrinking from her questioner, and looking as if she was about to flee from the room.
For a few moments the only sounds heard were those of quick breathing and the low hissing wash of the sea among the rocks, for the tide was well in now beneath the walls of the Fort. Then Mary Dillon recovered from her surprise, and went to the woman’s side, and laid her hand upon her arm.
“Come away,” she whispered.