"It is enough—go!" Desmond commanded in the peremptory vernacular; and mounted the steps with his burden.
Honor stood awaiting him in the drawing-room, white as her dress, tears glistening on her cheeks and lashes, yet very composed withal.
At sight of his face she started; it was grey-white and set like a rock. Only the eyes were alive—and ruthless, as she had never yet seen them, and prayed that she never might see them again.
"They've got the man," he said between his teeth. "I wish to God I could shoot him with my own hand."
Then he went forward to the sofa, and laid his wife upon it. His quick eye detected at once the nature of the wound. "Lung," he muttered mechanically. "No hope."
With the same unnatural calmness, he drew the long pins out of her hat—the poor, pretty hat which had so delighted her six hours ago; and as she moved, with a small sound of pain, he applied the spirit to her lips.
"What is it?" she murmured. "Don't touch me."
The faint note of distaste struck on her husband's heart; for he did not understand its meaning.
"Ladybird—look!" he entreated gently. "It is Theo." She opened her eyes, and gazed blankly up at him, where he leaned above her.