His attitude reflected itself in his surroundings. The house remained silent as the grave. Angus avoided him, and devoted all his attention to his prisoner. The nurses and the doctor devoted themselves to the last ounce of their strength to their patient; and the servants went about their duties with hushed voices, which left the great house with the atmosphere of a sepulcher.
Hendrie rarely left his library. Hour after hour he spent in desperate solitude. His pretence was work, but he did none. And Phyllis alone dared to approach him.
From her he drew some comfort. Her wonderful tact, and even affection, showed her the way to bring him a measure of that mental ease he so desperately needed. Only once during that terrible week of waiting did she make a mistake. She knew she had made it the moment the words had passed her lips, and it became a lesson she knew she would never need again.
It was on the fourth day of Frank's absence. She was beginning to catch something of the infection of Hendrie's restless unease. Doubt of the success of Frank's mission was creeping through her armor of optimism. She was troubled, and so her moment of weakness came.
"I—I wonder if he'll succeed. I wonder—if he'll be in time," she said.
Then in a moment she caught her breath at the sudden and awful expression of the man's eyes. They blazed up with a wild, insane light. He broke into a loud, harsh laugh.
"If he doesn't, you'll see me at the gallows, girl," he cried.
Phyllis had cried out in protest. Then, in something like panic, she rushed from the room.
That night she was haunted by dreams so hideous that long before daylight she had left her bed, and joined the night nurse.
Once more her fear got the better of her, but here she was met by the practical trained mind of a woman who was devoted to her work.