"Philip!"
"Sir?"
"My watch is hanging from a nail on the wall. There is a chamois bag hanging with it. Give—it—to me."
And when it lay in his hand he picked at the string, forced it open, drew out a key, and laid it in Berkley's hand with a faint smile.
"You remember, Philip?"
"Yes, sir."
The wounded man looked at Ailsa wistfully.
"It is the key to my house, dear. One day, please God, you and Philip will live there." . . . He closed his eyes, groping for both their hands, and retaining them, lay silent as though asleep.
Berkley's palm burned against hers; she never stirred, never moved a muscle, sitting there as though turned to stone. But when the wounded man's frail grasp relaxed, cautiously, silently, she freed her fingers, rose, looked down, listening to his breathing, then, without a glance at Berkley, moved quietly toward the door.
He was behind her a second later, and she turned to confront him in the corridor lighted by a single window.