"There is only one criticism," I said, "which I can make. And that was given by a man who knew the first Lady Fingarton well. Good though this boy is—he is not quite so good as the one who died...."
"Who was the man who said that?" she whispered, breathlessly.
"Sir William Lakington—the great heart specialist," I answered, and at that moment clear and distinct through the still night came the thrumming of a motor-car.
"Is it—my husband?" She listened tensely, and I crossed to the window. The car had stopped outside the gate, and already a man was striding up the narrow path to the front door.
"He has come, Mrs. MacDerry," I said, cheerfully.... "Now I want you to have another drink of this...."
I poured out the dose, and as I held the glass to her lips, the bedroom door gently opened and a man came in. I glanced up at him to ensure silence, and met a pair of piercing eyes, which were staring at me from under great bushy eyebrows. His huge frame seemed to fill the whole doorway; then, on tiptoe he crept towards the bed.
I laid the glass down, and turned away. My part was over, save for a word of warning. And so I beckoned to him, and he followed me to the window.
"You have not got long, Mr. MacDerry," I whispered. "The sands are very low." It was then that I noticed a huge roll of illustrated papers under his arm. "I shall be downstairs: call me if you want me."
"Is it the end?" he whispered, and I bowed gravely.
"It is the end," I answered.