"He is my very dear friend," I said, "and I have often heard him speak of you. I know him for one of the best men alive."
She slipped down on her knees by the bed, and if I had not already known all about the matter her eyes would have told me.
"I believe he is, I believe he is," she said. "Tell me about him. Is he well? When did you see him last?"
"No longer ago than this morning," I said.
"SHE SPRANG TO HER FEET, AND RAN TO HIM WITH A JOYFUL CRY."
She hid her face and was silent for a time; I could see that she loved him beyond the ordinary love of women, and the sight sent such a wave of content through me that I believe I laughed softly. At any rate she looked up and I could not bear to see her unhappy any longer.
"My dear Miss O'Callaghan," I said, taking into my hand the warm little gloved fingers that lay on the coverlid, "will you forgive me for being a conspirator and a humbug? Remember I did it for the sake of my friend, and I knew he was worth it. I spoke of him and not of myself."
"What do you mean?" she cried. And then, with a hand at her bosom, "Oh, tell me, tell me!"
"St. Alleyne," I said, "loves you, and he's here to tell you himself." And with that I raised my voice and called his name. The door opened instantly—he must have had his hand on the latch the whole time—and there he stood, with his arms stretched out to her and the name, "Norah," on his lips. She sprang to her feet and ran to him with so joyful a cry that I knew my part in the comedy was over, and just as they embraced I turned away and closed my eyes.