"It was fifteen months ago, Jaff, and since then you've plucked hairs out of Prester John's beard, or been entertained by a Viceroy of China, which comes to the same thing. I was right in saying you had no idea of time or space."
He paid no attention to my poor, watery jest.
"It was the day before yesterday. And now he's dead and the child stillborn—"
I uttered a short cry which interrupted him. A memory had smitten me; that of his words in September, and of the queer slanting look in his eyes: "They'll both be born together."
I told Jaffery. "Was there ever such a ghastly prophecy?" I said. "Both stillborn together. The more one goes into the matter, the more shudderingly awful it is."
Jaffery nodded and stared into the fire.
"And she at the point of death—to complete the tragedy," he said below his breath.
Then suddenly he shook himself like a great dog.
"I would give the soul out of my body to save her," he cried with a startling quaver in his deep voice.
"I know you love her dearly, old man," said I, "but is life the best thing you can wish for her?"