“That doesn't matter. Hexter pays salaries.”
Objections like this last one had often been made, and as often overcome in the same words.
“And then besides—why, Alice, what's the matter?”
She had fallen back on the bed with a feeble moan. He leaned over her. Slowly she opened her eyes.
“Tom, I'm afraid I'm dying.”
Then Mogley remembered the doctor's words. Alice dying! Life was hard enough even when he had her to sustain his courage. What would it be without her?
The typewritten part had fallen on the bed. He pushed it aside.
“Hexter and his Mephisto be d——d!” said Mogley. “I shall stay at home with you to-night.”
“No, no, Tom: your one chance, remember! If you should make a hit before I die, I could go easier. It would brighten the next world for me until you come to join me.”
Mogley's weaker will succumbed to hers. So, with his right hand around Mrs. Mogley's wrist, turning his eyes now and then to the clock in the steeple which was visible through the narrow window, that he might know when to administer her medicine, he held his “part” in his left hand and refreshed his recollection of the lines.