Stratton’s chin fell again upon his breast.
“In a few hours,” continued the admiral, “fever will probably set in.”
A low, catching breath shook Stratton, and one hand grasped the table edge violently.
“And he will be delirious.”
Stratton strove hard to contain himself, but he started violently, and raising his face he passed his right-hand across his dripping brow.
“I cannot stop here, Guest,” said Sir Mark. “Come, Rebecca, my dear. You must not leave him alone. Shall I send in a medical man?”
“No!” cried Stratton hoarsely, in so fierce a voice that all started, and the admiral shrugged his shoulders, and drawing himself up crossed to the door, his sister following him with her face full of perplexity and commiseration.
But she turned as she reached the door, hesitated for a moment, and the rigid hardness in her face, with its anger against the man who had done her niece so cruel a wrong, died away to give place to a gentle, womanly look of sorrow and reproach as she hurried back to where Stratton stood with his back to the table, grasping its edge, while the objects thereon trembled and tottered from the motion communicated by the man’s quivering muscles.
“Heaven forgive you, Malcolm Stratton!” she said slowly. “I cannot now. I am going back to her. Man, you have broken the heart of as true and sweet a woman as ever lived.”
Stratton did not stir, but stood there bent, and as if crushed, listening to the rustle of his visitor’s rich silk, as she hurried back to her brother; then the door was opened, closed upon them, and a dead silence reigned in Stratton’s study, as he and Guest stood listening to the faint sound of the descending steps till they had completely died away.