Nicholson turned and came to his side.
"Hullo!" he said. "Awake, are you? How are you?"
Travers made no immediate answer; he took Nicholson's hand in a feverish clasp and drew him nearer.
"I am in great pain," he said. "You don't need to pretend. I know. The fear of death has been on me all day. Just now I am not afraid. Is there no hope?"
"You mean—for us? None."
Travers nodded.
"I heard you talking, but I wanted to make sure. It has all been my fault—every bit of it. It's decent of you not to make me feel it more. You are not to blame—her. You know I tempted her, I made her help me. She isn't responsible. At any rate, she made a clean breast of it—that's something to her credit. I didn't want to—I never meant to. I am not the sort that repents. But this last week you have been so decent, and Lois such a plucky little soul—she ought to hate me—and perhaps she does—but she has done her best. Nicholson, are you listening? Can you hear what I say? It's so damned hard for me to talk."
"I can hear," Nicholson said kindly. "Don't worry about what can't be helped." In spite of everything, he pitied the man, and his tone showed it.
Travers lifted himself higher, clinging to the other's shoulder. His voice began to come in rough, uneven jerks.
"But it can be helped—it must be helped! Don't you see—I came between you and Lois purposely. From the first moment you spoke of her I knew that you loved her—and I wanted her. I never gave your message. I didn't dare. You are the sort of man a woman cares for—a woman like Lois. I couldn't risk it. But now—well, I'm done, and afterward she will be free—"