“Good night!” she murmured drowsily.

Her eyes half-opened upon him.  She gave him her lips.

And as he stooped, with a great tremor, to kiss them, “Good night, dear—­Guy!” Her voice was fainter, more indistinct.  She sank back again into that deep slumber from which she had barely been roused.

And Burke went from her with the flower-like memory of her kiss upon his lips, and the dryness of ashes in his mouth.

It was several hours later that Sylvia awoke to full consciousness and a piercing realization of a strange presence that watched by her side.

She opened her eyes wide with a curious conviction that there was a cat in the room, and then all in a moment she met the cool, repellent stare of the black-browed doctor whom Burke had brought from Ritzen.

A little quiver of repugnance went through her at the sight, swiftly followed by a sharp thrill of indignation.  What was he doing seated there by her side—­this swarthy-faced stranger whom she had disliked instinctively at first sight?

And then—­suddenly it rushed through her mind that he was the bearer of evil tidings, that he had come to tell her that Guy was dead.  She raised herself sharply.

“Oh, what is it?  What is it?” she gasped.  “Tell me quickly!  It’s better for me to know.  It’s better for me to know.”

He put out a narrow, claw-like hand and laid it upon her arm.  His eyes were like onyxes, Oriental, quite emotionless.

“Do not agitate yourself, madam!” he said.  “My patient is better.  I think, that with care—­he may live.  That is, if he finds it worth while.”

“What do you mean?” she said in a whisper.

That there was a veiled meaning to his words she was assured at the outset.  His whole bearing conveyed something mysterious, something sinister, to her startled imagination.  She wanted to shake off the hand upon her arm, but she had to suffer it though the man’s bare touch revolted her.

He was leaning slightly towards her, but yet his face was utterly inanimate.  It was obvious that though he had imposed his personality upon her with a definite end in view, he was personally totally indifferent as to whether he achieved that end or not.

“I mean,” he said, after a quiet pause, “that the desire to live is sometimes the only medicine that is of any avail.  I know Guy Ranger.  He is a fool in many ways, but not in all.  He is not for instance fool enough to hang on to life if it holds nothing worth having.  He was born with an immense love of life.  He would not have done this thing if he had not somehow lost this gift—­for it is a gift.  If he does not get it back—­somehow—­then,” the black, stony eyes looked into hers without emotion—­“he will die.”

She shrank at the cold deliberation of his words.  “Oh no—­no!  Not like this!  Not—­by his own hand!”

“Ah!” He leaned towards her, bringing his sallow, impassive countenance close to hers, repulsively close, to her over-acute sensibilities.  “And how is that to be prevented?  Who is to give him that priceless remedy—­the only medicine that can save him?  Can I?” He lifted his shoulders expressively, indicating his own helplessness.  And then in a voice dropped to a whisper, “Can you?”