“Grace!” said Fitzpiers, in an indescribable whisper—more than invocating, if not quite deprecatory.
He was arrested by the spectacle, not so much in its intrinsic character—though that was striking enough to a man who called himself the husband of the sufferer’s friend and nurse—but in its character as the counterpart of one that had its hour many months before, in which he had figured as the patient, and the woman had been Felice Charmond.
“Is he in great danger—can you save him?” she cried again.
Fitzpiers aroused himself, came a little nearer, and examined Winterborne as he stood. His inspection was concluded in a mere glance. Before he spoke he looked at her contemplatively as to the effect of his coming words.
“He is dying,” he said, with dry precision.
“What?” said she.
“Nothing can be done, by me or any other man. It will soon be all over. The extremities are dead already.” His eyes still remained fixed on her; the conclusion to which he had come seeming to end his interest, professional and otherwise, in Winterborne forever.
“But it cannot be! He was well three days ago.”
“Not well, I suspect. This seems like a secondary attack, which has followed some previous illness—possibly typhoid—it may have been months ago, or recently.”
“Ah—he was not well—you are right. He was ill—he was ill when I came.”