"What motive could she have had?"
"That I do not know. I could find out though if I set my wits to work. But I have no interest in knowing."
"I have it," said Colville, suddenly; "I am acquainted with Mrs. Vance. When I used to visit the Lawrences I found out—no matter how—that Mrs. Vance was in love with Lancelot Darling. If she did the deed it was jealousy that goaded her to its commission."
"Very probably," said the doctor.
They had talked on, forgetful or regardless of the old woman who sat at the foot of the bed. She was listening eagerly, with twitching fingers, and muttered inaudibly, "Gold, gold."
"What are you muttering about, old hag?" said Pratt, overhearing her. "None of your jargon now. And don't repeat what we have been saying to your old man. If you do I will send your black soul to its doom sooner than it would go of its own accord! Do you hear me, old witch?"
"Yes, I hear; I will never repeat it, never," whined the old wretch, grinning horribly.
"See that you don't, then," said Colville.
The evening hours wore on to midnight, and the three watchers in the quiet room kept their places, undisturbed by even a breath from the pale form on the bed. The old crone sat wide awake and on the alert: Doctor Pratt leaned back and watched the patient through half-closed lids; Colville dozed in a large arm-chair. Surely there never was a patient who gave so little trouble to the nurses. No querulous complaint came from the pale lips, no restless hands tossed aside the bed-clothes, no fever-parched tongue cried out for the cooling draught of ice-water. Still and pale she lay through the panting summer night, taking no note of time or aught earthly.