“Her sinking energies, when I first saw her this morning, had rallied for the moment. The nurse informed me that she had slept during the early hours of the new day. Previously to this, there were symptoms of fever, accompanied by some slight delirium. The words that escaped her in this condition appear to have related mainly to an absent person whom she spoke of by the name of ‘George.’ Her one anxiety, I am told, was to see ‘George’ again before she died.
“Hearing this, it struck me as barely possible that the portrait in the locket might be the portrait of the absent person. I sent her nurse out of the room, and took her hand in mine. Trusting partly to her own admirable courage and strength of mind, and partly to the confidence which I knew she placed in me as an old friend and adviser, I adverted to the words which had fallen from her in the feverish state. And then I said, ‘You know that any secret of yours is safe in my keeping. Tell me, do you expect to receive any little keepsake or memorial from ‘George’?
“It was a risk to run. The black veil which she always wears was over her face. I had nothing to tell me of the effect which I was producing on her, except the changing temperature, or the partial movement, of her hand, as it lay in mine, just under the silk coverlet of the bed.
“She said nothing at first. Her hand turned suddenly from cold to hot, and closed with a quick pressure on mine. Her breathing became oppressed. When she spoke, it was with difficulty. She told me nothing; she only put a question:
“‘Is he here?’ she asked.
“I said, ‘Nobody is here but myself.’
“‘Is there a letter?’
“I said ‘No.’
“She was silent for a while. Her hand turned cold; the grasp of her fingers loosened. She spoke again: ‘Be quick, doctor! Whatever it is, give it to me, before I die.’
“I risked the experiment; I opened the locket, and put it into her hand.