A second night I remained there, so as to be near the woman I loved so fervently.
Sir George gave me an assurance, as we sat together before we turned in for a few hours’ sleep, that his patient was progressing favourably, and that I might again see her the next day. Cardew also remained, and as we three sat smoking we discussed the strange affair, wondering what motive the man Shaw could possibly have in attempting so ingeniously and in such cold blood a second crime. But we could arrive at no definite conclusion. The whole affair was entirely shrouded in mystery.
In the morning I was permitted to see Asta again. She seemed much better and spoke quite brightly.
“Mr Kemball,” she said, after we had been chatting for some minutes, “I—I—I want to tell you something—something very important—when we are alone.”
“No, not now. Miss Seymour,” interrupted Sir George, shaking his finger at his patient, and laughing. “Later on—a little later on. You must not excite yourself to-day.”
And so, with a pretty pout, she was compelled to remain silent at the doctor’s orders.
I suppose I must have been there a full quarter of an hour, though the time passed so rapidly that it only appeared like a few moments. Then I bade her be of good cheer and went forth again.
She had made no mention of the man who was a fugitive.
The only poignant remark she had made was a warning.
“Be careful when you go into my bedroom. There is something in there,” she had said. But I had only laughed and promised her that I would not intrude.