“How is Roger?”
“Well, I can’t quite say,” Austin acknowledged. “I think he was quite calm, but—well, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t! The padre—Mr. Iverson—has permission to stay the night with him. He’ll be there now, I guess.”
They spoke in hushed tones, as people do in the presence of death, and then lapsed into silence, sitting hand-in-hand, as unhappy a pair of lovers as could be found in London that night.
The evening dragged on. Time after time Winnie peeped into the bedroom, finding Grace still asleep, until just before nine, when Austin had departed to keep his appointment, she returned and whispered to Miss Culpepper that Grace had risen and was kneeling beside the bed.
“She is very still, but she’s breathing regularly and quietly. Look. I’ve left the door open. What ought we to do?”
“Don’t disturb her for a few minutes anyhow,” Miss Culpepper counselled; and again they waited, outside the door, whence they could just see the kneeling figure, watching and listening intently.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed and struck nine. At the sound Grace raised her head, then bowed it again.
Slowly the minutes passed, each, to those distressed watchers, seeming like an hour. A quarter past nine—half-past nine!
“I think we ought to rouse her now,” Winnie whispered anxiously. “She will be quite numb and cramped—if she hasn’t fainted!”
As she spoke the telephone bell sounded—a startling summons in that hushed place.