But there was no response. He tiptoed out of the room as if leaving the presence of the dead.
Now, as he mounted the stairs, he had time to wonder what her attitude would be after these three weeks of suspense. A moment more and he stood in her presence, mute, shocked, heartsick at the change that this month of agony had wrought in her. Her face was ghastly in its pallor; deep yellowish-purple half-circles lay beneath her sunken eyes; every feature, every line of the face was sharpened, and on each cheek bone burned a fever spot of vivid scarlet; her dry eyes also burned with unnatural and fevered brightness, the heavy eyelids keeping up a continuous quivering, painful to see. The hand she held out to him throbbed quick and hard in his grasp.
"Any news, Tave?" Her voice was dull from despair.
He shook his head; the slow tears coursed down his cheeks; he could not help it.
"Sit down, Tave; you said it was important."
He controlled his emotion as best he could. "Aurora, I've been thinking what can be done when he's found—"
"If he ever is! Oh, Tave, Tave—if I could only know something—where he is—if living; I can't sleep thinking—" She wrung her clasped hands and began to walk nervously back and forth in the room.
"Aurora, I feel sure he's living, but when he's found—then's the time to help."
"How?" She turned upon him almost savagely; it looked as if her primitive mother-passion were at bay for her young. "Where's help to come from? I've nothing left."
"But I have." He spoke with confidence and took out the package from his breast pocket. He held it out to her. "See here, Aurora, here's the value of twenty thousand dollars—take it—use it as your own."