Deringham, however, found little solace in such reflections, and could not lie still, and rising, strained his ears to listen.  There was nothing but the moaning of the wind, the ranch was very still, and the sound of his watch grew maddening.  If Alton was sleeping now, Deringham knew it was ticking his last hold on good fame and fortune away.  Twice he paced up and down the room with uncovered feet, and then, quivering a little when the floor creaked, opened the door that led into the one adjoining.

“Alice,” he said, and, for he had thrown off the mask now, his daughter wondered at his face.

“Hush,” she said almost sternly, and then moved very quietly away from the bed.  Deringham came in and leaned upon the table beside her.

“The great question is still unanswered?” he said.

His daughter bent her head, and then looked at him steadily.  “I think we shall know in an hour or two.  Is it important to you?”

Deringham, who was not wholly master of himself, made a little grimace, and the girl glanced away from him with a curious shrinking.  Under stress of fatigue and anxiety the veneer had worn off both of them, and in that impressive hour, when the spirit is bound most loosely to the clay, each had seen something not hitherto suspected of the other’s inmost self.  In the girl’s case the sight had been painful, for all that was good in her had risen uppermost just then.  In Deringham’s there was very little but veneer, and craven fear and avarice looked out through his eyes.

“Yes,” he said in a voice that was the harsher for its lowness; “and to you.  I did not tell you, but if that man dies you will be the mistress of Carnaby.”

Alice Deringham made a little half-contemptuous gesture of impatience, but the colour showed in her cheek.  “You are over-tired, father, or you would not have thought of that—­just now.”

Deringham glanced at her curiously with an unpleasant smile.  “You apparently did not comprehend me,” he said.  “Would you be astonished to hear that Alton, who seems to have anticipated disaster, left you Carnaby by will?”

The girl rose and met the man’s gaze directly, though the colour had crept beyond her cheeks now.  “No,” she said very quietly; “though I never thought of this.  I know him better than ever you could do.  But it is time I gave him the medicine, and you must go.”

Deringham did not move, but watched his daughter as she took up the glass and phial.  “It is important that he should have the draught?” he said.

“Yes,” she said in a voice that thrilled a little as she stood very straight before him.  “I think it would make all the difference between—­a girl without a dowry, and the mistress of Carnaby.”

Then she pointed as it were commandingly towards the door, and Deringham went out with a white face, as though she had struck him upon it, while Alice Deringham shivered and sank down limply into the chair.  She sat still for a moment with eyes that shone mistily and a great sense of humility, and then, rousing herself with an effort, moved towards the bed and touched the sick man gently.  He opened his eyes as she did so, and there was no glitter in them now, but a dawning comprehension.  He seemed to smile a little when she raised his head.