The car came to a stand immediately before her, and for a few moments nothing happened.  And still she was not afraid.  Still she was as it were guided and sustained and lifted above all turmoil.  She seemed to stand on a mountain-top, above the seething misery that had for so long possessed her.  She was braced to look upon even Death unshaken, undismayed.

Steadily she moved.  She went down to the car.  Old David was behind her.  He came forward and opened the door with fumbling, quivering hands.  She had time to notice his agitation and to be sorry for him.

Then a voice came to her from within, and a great throb went through her of thankfulness, of relief, of joy unspeakable.

“Victor, you old ass, what are you blubbing for?  Anyone would think—­” A sudden pause, then in a low, eager tone, “Hullo,—­Avery?”

The incredulous interrogation of the words cut her to the heart.  She went up the step and into the car as if drawn by an irresistible magnetism, seeing neither Crowther nor Victor, aware only of a prone, gaunt figure on a stretcher, white-haired, skeleton-featured, that reached a trembling hand to her and said again, “Hullo!”

For one wild second she felt as if she were in the presence of old Sir Beverley, so striking was the likeness that the drawn, upturned face bore to him.  Then Piers’ eyes, black as the night, smiled up at her, half-imperious, half-pleading, and the illusion was gone.

She stooped over him, that trembling hand fast clasped in hers; but she could not speak.  No words would come.

“Been waiting, what?” he said.  “I hope not for long?”

But still she could not speak.  She felt choked.  It was all so unnatural, so cruelly hard to bear.

“I shan’t be like this always,” he said.  “Afraid I look an awful guy just at present.”

That was all then, for Crowther came gently between them; and then he and Victor, with infinite care, lifted the stretcher and bore the master of the house into his own home.

Half an hour later Avery turned from waving a farewell to Crowther, who had insisted upon going back to town with the car that had brought them, and softly shut out the night.

She had had the library turned into a bedroom for Piers, and she crossed the hall to the door with an eagerness that carried her no further.  There, gripping the handle, she was stayed.

Within, she could hear Victor moving to and fro, but she listened in vain for her husband’s voice, and a great shyness came upon her.  She could not ask permission to enter.

Minutes passed while she stood there, minutes of tense listening, during which she scarcely seemed to breathe.  Then very suddenly she heard a sound that set every nerve a-quiver—­a groan that was more of weariness than pain, but such weariness as made her own heart throb in passionate sympathy.

Almost without knowing it, she turned the handle of the door, and opened it.  A moment more, and she was in the room.