"She is waiting on the stairs, in the alcove," answered O'Neill.
Buscarlet's mild eyes opened in amaze. "You have brought her with you?" he cried.
O'Neill nodded.
"Thank God!" ejaculated Truelove.
"How is he?" asked O'Neill. "Still—er—living, eh?"
It was Truelove that replied. "Still keeping on, sir," he answered.
"But changed, as you might say. Softened would be the word, sir."
"What d'ye mean?" demanded O'Neill.
"Well, sir," said the ex-corporal of dragoons, with a touch of hesitation, "it isn't for me to judge, but I should say he's—he's got religion. Or a taste of it, anyway."
O'Neill stared at the pair of them in open dismay. "Let me see him," he said shortly, and they followed him through the little anteroom to the great studio.
Behind the screen, the narrow bed was white, and on it Regnault lay in stillness, looking up.