A quarter of an hour—eternity—went by, and he was still there. And then quite suddenly he was gone; the stars shone through the dome clear and unimpeded. For five minutes Jack Denver remained motionless; then, still lying in the same position, he spoke in a whisper.
“He’s gone, darling; but don’t move yet. If he comes in, I’ll go for him, but whatever happens you get on the other side of the door.”
“All right, Jack; but pray Heaven he comes soon. I don’t think I can go on much longer.”
Again eternity passed: the door was still shut. He wasn’t coming; the acting had been in vain. Hubert Garling had seen, as he thought, their agony before they became unconscious; now he was going to make quite certain they were dead before he bothered with them further.
And with a dreadful feeling of physical sickness Jack Denver realized that, though the acting had been in vain, it had been a wonderful dress-rehearsal. Even so, in reality, would Hilda pitch forward and lie still; even so would he tear at his collar and fight for the air which was not there.
The girl had risen, and he rose too, and went to her.
“He’s not coming, Jack,” she said, steadily. “We’ve failed.”
“Yes, dear—I’m afraid we’ve failed.”
“So this is the end.”
He made no answer; only put his arm round her waist and held her tightly.