Penelope signed and laid the telegraph form reluctantly aside.
"You agree with me, Kitten?" Nan whirled round upon Kitty for support.
"I'm not quite sure," came the answer. "You see, I've been away so long I really hardly know how things stand between you and Roger."
"They stand exactly as they were. I've promised to marry him in April.
And I'm going to keep my promise."
"Not in April," said Kitty very quietly. "You won't be able to marry him so soon. Nan, dear, I've—I've bad news for you." She hesitated and Nan broke in hastily:
"Bad news? What—who is it? Not—not Uncle David?" Her voice rose a little shrilly.
Kitty nodded, her face very sorrowful. And now Nan noticed that she had evidently been crying before she came to the flat.
"Yes. He died this morning—in his sleep. They sent round to let me know. He had told his man to do this if—whenever it happened. He didn't want you to have the shock of receiving a wire."
"I don't think it would have been a shock," said Nan at last, quietly.
"I think I knew it wouldn't be very long before—before he went away.
I've known . . . since Christmas."
Her thoughts went back to that evening when she and St. John had sat talking together by the firelight in the West Parlour. Yes, she had known—ever since then—that the Dark Angel was drawing near. And now, now that she realised her old friend had stepped painlessly and peacefully across the border-line which divides this world we know from that other world whose ways are hidden from our sight, it came upon her less as a shock than as the inevitable ending of a long suspense.