Then with swift steps he began the ascent of the stone steps, gradually slackening in pace until, when he reached the summit and stood facing that door behind which a woman watched and waited, he had perforce to pause to regain his breath, whilst certain twinges in his right knee reminded him that he was no longer as young as he had been.
In answer to his knock a low voice bade him enter, and a minute later he was standing in the quiet little room, his eyes gazing levelly into the feverish dark ones of the woman who had risen at his entrance.
“So!” she said, while an odd smile twisted her bloodless lips. “You have come, after all. Sometimes—I began to doubt if you would. It is days—an eternity since I sent for you.”
“I have been away,” he replied simply. “And my mail was not forwarded. I came directly I received the ring—at once, as I told you I should.”
“Well, sit down and let us talk”—impatiently—“it doesn't matter—nothing matters since you have come in time.”
“In time? What do you mean? In time for what? Pauline, tell me”—advancing a step—“tell me, in God's Name, what are you doing in this place?” He glanced significantly round the shabby room with its threadbare carpet and distempered walls.
“I'm living here—”
“Living here? You?”
“Yes. Why not? Soon”—indifferently—“I shall be dying here. It is, at least, as good a place to die in as any other.”
“Dying?” The man's pleasant baritone voice suddenly shook. “Dying? Oh, no, no! You've been ill—I can see that—but with care and good nursing—”