With a hushed tread Fane left the studio, passed through the hall, ascended the stairs to the sculptor's room. Outside the door he hesitated for a moment. He was trembling. He heard a clock ticking within. It sounded very loud, like a hammer beating in his ears. He pushed the door open at length, and entered. Brune's tall figure was sitting in an armchair, bowed over a table on which lay an open Art magazine.
His head lay hidden on his arms, which were crossed.
Fane raised the face and turned it up towards him.
It was the face of a dead man.
He looked at it, and smiled.
Then he stole down again to the studio, where Sydney was still standing.
“Yes?” she said interrogatively, as he entered.
“He is dead,” Fane answered.
She only bowed her head, as if in assent. She stood a moment, then she turned her tearless eyes to him, and said:—
“Why could not you save him?”