“My husband met with an accident while motoring this morning,”
     she read.  “He has been brought home, terribly injured, and
     keeps asking for you.  Can you come?

     “N.  CONINGSBY.”

Glancing up, she saw Carey, pale and stern, waiting to speak.

“Send back word, ‘Yes, at once,’” he said.  “And perhaps you can spare me the car?”

He turned away without waiting for her reply, and went back to his room, crushing the note unconsciously in his hand.

X

“And the sea—­gave up—­the dead—­that were in it.”  Haltingly the words fell through the silence.  There was a certain monotony about them, as if they had been often repeated.  The speaker turned his head from side to side upon the pillow uneasily, as if conscious of restraint, then spoke again in the tone of one newly awakened.  “Why doesn’t that fellow come?” he demanded restlessly.  “Did you tell him I couldn’t wait?”

“He is coming,” a quiet voice answered at his side.  “He will soon be here.”

He moved his head again at the words, seeming to listen intently.

“Ah, Naomi, my girl,” he said, “you’ve turned up trumps at last.  It won’t have been such a desperate sacrifice after all, eh, dear?  It’s wonderful how things get squared.  Is that the doctor there?  I can’t see very well.”

The doctor bent over him.

“Are you wanting anything?”

“Nothing—­nothing, except that fellow Carey.  Why in thunder doesn’t he come?  No; there’s nothing you can do.  I’m pegging out.  My time is up.  You can’t put back the clock.  I wouldn’t let you if you could—­not as things are.  I have been a blackguard in my time, but I’ll take my last hedge straight.  I’ll die like a man.”

Again he turned his head, seeming to listen.

“I thought I heard something.  Did someone open the door?  It’s getting very dark.”

Yes; the door had opened, but only the dying brain had caught the sound.  As Carey came noiselessly forward only the dying man greeted him.

“Ah, here you are!  Come quite close to me!  I want to see you, if I can.  You’re the little newspaper chap who saved my life at Magersfontein?”

“Yes,” Carey said.

He sat down by Coningsby’s side, facing the light.

“I was told you wanted me,” he said.

“Yes; I want you to give me a promise.”  Coningsby spoke rapidly, with brows drawn together.  “I suppose you know I’m a dead man?”

“I don’t believe in death,” Carey answered very quietly.

Coningsby’s eyes burned with a strange light.

“Nor I,” he said.  “Nor I. I’ve been too near it before now to be afraid.  Also, I’ve lived too long and too hard to care overmuch for what is left.  But there’s one thing I mean to do before I go.  And you’ll give me your promise to see it through?”

He paused, breathing quick and short; then went on hurriedly, as a man whose time is limited.