“Never mind, my darling!” he whispered.  “We are together now.”

“But we shan’t be when the morning comes,” sobbed Avery.  “I know it is all a dream.  It’s happened so many, many times.”

He clasped her closer, hushing her with tender words, vowing he would never leave her, while the Shadow of Death gathered closer about them, threatening every instant to come between.

She grew calmer at last, and presently sank into a state of semi-consciousness lying against his breast.

Time passed.  Piers did not know how it went.  With his wife clasped in his arms he sat and waited, waited—­for the falling of a deeper night or the coming of the day—­he knew not which.  His brain felt like a stopped watch; it did not seem to be working at all.  Even the power to suffer seemed to have left him.  He felt curiously indifferent, strangely submissive to circumstances,—­like a man scourged into the numbness of exhaustion.  He knew at the back of his mind that as soon as his vitality reasserted itself the agony would return.  The respite could not last, but while it lasted he knew no pain.  Like one in a state of coma, he was not even aware of thought.

It might have been hours later, or possibly only minutes, that Maxwell Wyndham came round to his side and bent over him, a quiet hand on his shoulder.

“You had better lay her down,” he said.  “She won’t wake now.”

“What?” said Piers sharply.

The words had stabbed him back to understanding in a second.  He glared at the doctor with eyes half-savage, half-frightened.

“No, no!” said Wyndham gently.  “I don’t mean that.  She is asleep.  She is breathing.  But she will rest better if you lay her down.”

The absolute calmness with which he spoke took effect upon Piers.  He yielded, albeit not very willingly, to the mandate.

They laid her down upon the pillow between them, and then for many seconds Wyndham stood, closely watching, almost painfully intent.  Piers waited dumbly, afraid to move, afraid to speak.

The doctor turned to him at last.  “What about that meal you spoke of?  Shall we go down and get it?”

Piers stared at him.  “I am not leaving her,” he said in a quick whisper.

Wyndham’s hand was on his shoulder again—­a steady, compelling hand.  “Oh yes, you are.  I want to talk to you,” he said.  “She is sleeping naturally, and she won’t wake for some time.  Come!”

There was nothing peremptory about him, yet he gained his end.  Piers rose.  He hung for a moment over the bed, gazing hungrily downwards upon the shadowy, motionless form, then in silence turned.

Tudor had risen.  He met them in the doorway, and between him and the London doctor a few words passed.  Then the latter pushed his hand through Piers’ arm, and drew him away.

They descended the wide oak stairs together and entered the dining-room.  Piers moved like a man dazed.  His companion went straight to the table and poured out a drink, which he immediately held out to Piers, looking at him with eyes that were green and very shrewd.