"Please do not grow impatient," said Mrs. Conroy. "You know there may be some delay."
Slowly the evening came on and the street lamps were lit. Mr. Horton sat at a front window, looking out. He did not want a light in the room.
"I wish to watch for her," he explained. "You may light up when she comes."
He was now feverish, but would not take the soothing draught the nurse prepared. Hour after hour passed, and presently he saw Homer Bulson enter his quarters, and then go out again.
"I do not know how Homer will take the news," he told himself. "But he will have to make the best of it. Of one thing I am resolved—Gertrude shall do as she pleases if only she remains with me, and she shall have half of my fortune when I die."
At last it was nine o'clock, and then the sick man became more nervous than ever. Every time a woman appeared on the dimly lit street he would watch her eagerly until she went past the mansion.
"She will not come!" he groaned. "She will not come!"
At ten o'clock Mrs. Conroy tried to get him to bed, but he was stubborn and would not go. Another hour went by, and then another. As the clock struck twelve Mark Horton fell forward in his chair.
"She has deserted me!" he groaned. "And I deserve it all!" And he sank in a chair in a dead faint.
With an effort the nurse placed him upon the bed and did what she could for him. But the shock had been great, and in haste she sent for a physician.