"Well, you see, miss, he looks uncommonly like a stiff 'un this minute, and if he was to die by the way or hanythink, and him halone—"
"I will go," interposed Edith, turning away with a sick shudder. "Call the cab at once."
A four-wheeler was summoned—the insensible young baronet was carried out and laid, as comfortably as might be, on the back seat. Edith followed, unutterably against her will, but how was she to help it? He was her worst enemy, but even to one's worst enemy common humanity at times must be shown. It would be brutal to let him go alone.
"Don't you be afraid, miss," the chemist said cheerfully; "he ain't dead yet. He's only stunned like, and will come round all right directly."
"Fenton's, Bill," and the cab rattled off.
CHAPTER IV.
HOW THEY PARTED
That ride—all her life it came back to her like a bad nightmare. She kept her eyes turned away as much as she could from that rigid form and ghastly face opposite, but in spite of herself they would wander back. What Miss Catheron had said was true then—he was dying—death was pictured in his face. What if, after all, there was some secret strong enough to make his conduct in leaving her right? She had thought it over and wondered and wondered, until her brain was dazed, but could never hit on any solution. She could not now—it was not right. Whatever the secret was, he had known it before he married her—why had he not left her then—why in leaving her after had he not explained? There was no excuse for him, none, and in spite of the white, worn face that pleaded for him, her heart hardened once more—hardened until she felt neither pity nor pain.
They reached the hotel. Jamison, the valet, came down, and recoiled at sight of his master's long lost wife.
"My lady!" he faltered, staring as though he had seen a ghost.