And now the two cousins met Mr. Dayne in this strange endless corridor; and knew that no services were asked of them.

They greeted with little speech.  Mr. Dayne told of the simple dispositions they were making.  Chas explained how Mr. Heth had tried to communicate with Mrs. Mason,—­whom Mr. Dayne had quite overlooked, it seemed,—­but found that she was out of town; had telegraphed; how he would have come down with them now, but had had to stop for the setting of his arm.  Uncle Thornton would come this evening....

“Ah, that’s kind of him,” said Mr. Dayne.  “He must be in much pain....”

Then silence fell.  There seemed nothing to say or do.  How think that she could serve—­mitigate these numb horrors of pain and self-reproach?  All was over.

“Where is he?” said Cally, her voice so little and calm.

The clergyman told her.  And then all three stood looking down the corridor to the door at the end of it:  a shut door marked in white letters:  DR. VIVIAN....  But nothing could hurt her now.

“We thought that was right,” said Mr. Dayne....  “Will you go in for a moment?”

Briefly the girl’s veiled eyes met his.  He was aware that a little tremor went through her; perhaps he then understood a little further.  And he thought he had never seen anybody so beautiful and white.

He added in his comforting way:  “There’s no one at all with him except the little girl here, Corinne, that he was kind to....”

Surely there was never a loneliness like this loneliness.

“I will go, if I may,” said Cally.

Chas was eyeing her, unbelievably grave, turning his hat between his hands.  And then she remembered Hen, left alone, who would not be comforted.

She whispered:  “Don’t wait for me....  I’ll come in a minute.”

The young man hesitated; they spoke a moment; it was so arranged.  Chas was tipping away from her down the well of the stairs.

And she and the clergyman were walking up the corridor, his hand at her elbow, to the door with the white letters on it.

As Mr. Dayne’s hand touched the knob, she spoke again, very low.

“Is he....  Is he—­much ...?”

“No,” said Mr. Dayne, “the injuries were internal.  There’s hardly a mark....”

So, opening the door softly, he left her.

And she was within, the door a step or two behind her, in front a long space, drawn blinds, and the indistinguishable twilight.  Somewhere before her was the mortal man who had pledged her one day that he would prove his friendship with his life.

And how came she here; by what right?

She had perceived remotely that she was not alone.  Out of the dim great stretches there emerged advancing a little figure, black-clad; advancing silent, with lowered head.  Drawing near, she did not look up, did not speak:  she was merely fading from the room.

The figure was vaguely apprehended, as one upon another planet.  But Cally, stirring slightly as she slipped past, made a movement with her hand and said, just audibly: