With a smothered sob she broke away from Elsie's restraining hand and rushed precipitously down the stairs. Nigel tried to walk level with her, but she passed him and hurried out into the street. Elsie closed the door and walked with a heavy heart into the library. On a table by the window reposed the bouquet of flowers that Sylvia had brought—lilies, late roses and carnations, all white as the Seraph loved them. Taking them in her hand, she tiptoed out of the room and across the hall to the Seraph's door. He was still sleeping, but awoke in the early afternoon and inquired whether any one had called.
"The search-party," Elsie told him, forcing a smile.
"Who was there?"
"Young Mr. Rawnsley and two detectives."
"Was that all?"
The pathetic eagerness of his tone cut her to the quick.
"Wasn't it enough?" she asked indifferently.
The Seraph shielded his eyes from the light with one hand.
"I don't know. Sometimes I used to think I knew when other people—some people—were near me. I fancied—when I was asleep—I suppose it must have been a dream—I don't know—I fancied there was some one else quite close."
He turned restlessly on the bed and caught Elsie's fingers in a bloodless, wasted hand.