"Dead?" Although he had half expected the news, Anstice found it hard to believe. "Mrs. Cheniston, are you sure? May I come and see? You might—possibly—be mistaken."
"I am not mistaken," she said, and for a second a pitiful little smile touched her white lips. "Bruce is dead—but come and see for yourself. I ... I am glad you are safely back, Dr. Anstice."
"Thank you," he said quietly; and then without more ado they moved side by side towards the room in which Bruce Cheniston had yielded up his life.
Mrs. Wood rose from her seat as they entered, and glided softly away, beckoning to her husband, who stood by the window, to join her; and when they were alone Anstice and the girl so lately widowed moved forward until they stood beside the bed on which Bruce Cheniston lay in all the white majesty of Death.
A very brief examination satisfied Anstice that Iris had not been mistaken. Cheniston was dead; and as he stood looking down on the quiet face, which, by virtue of Death's magic alchemy, had regained in the last hour something of its former youth, Anstice knew a sincere and unfeigned pity for the young life so ruthlessly cut short by a cruel disease.
"Yes, Mrs. Cheniston." He covered the dead white face gently. "I am sorry to say you are right. Were you with him when he died?"
"Yes. We were alone," she said, and again that oddly stricken look made his heart yearn pitifully over her.
"He was conscious before the end?"
"I—I think so—at least, partly." Her tone was indefinable, desolation and a strange, half-hurt wonder sounding in its low note. "He did not speak much—only a few words—at the end I don't think he knew me...."
"I am sorry you were left alone," he said, and he ventured to lay his hand for a second gently on her arm. "I wish I could have been back earlier. I am afraid it has been a shock to you."