"What d'you mean?" Armstrong exclaimed, wondering. "Is Dorothy—"
"There's one thing ye can't grip, as you'll learn. No; I'm telling the truth when I tell ye that I don't know about Dorothy. This thing is mental and spiritual with her. She's been so bent on having it out with ye that it'll either kill or cure—oh, ye poor blind fool! There's no fool like a sincere fool—"
Armstrong smiled suddenly. "I know it, Irvin," he said quietly. "I should have written Dorothy—but it's one of those things that's mighty hard to write. I think I know what you mean, and if I'd only known earlier that Dorothy realized it also—well, no matter now. Is she very ill?"
"She is," said Irvin, staring at him with penetrating gaze. "D'you mean to say that you've seen this thing for yourself? Well, go your way to her and talk it out, and heaven send ye may cool down the fever that's in her heart! It's her only chance."
He swung Armstrong to the door.
The room was empty save for the figure on the bed. Armstrong crossed the floor, knelt beside Dorothy, felt her fingers creep into his. Her blue eyes fluttered open, her look fell upon him like a caress.
"Dear!" she said, faintly. "What kept you away? You wrote that you'd won—"
"Yes, we won," said Armstrong, yet cold sweat sprang on his face. Dorothy's voice, her mortal pallor, above all the look in her eyes—these things pierced him. He knew that he must talk swiftly to keep her from talking, as Irvin had ordered him.
"There was more trouble that kept me," he went on. "Macgowan made a remark that opened my eyes—dear girl, I've had a tough time trying to realize the truth of it all, now I've seen it at last."
He paused, trying to find words, and a sudden wondering smile came to her lips.