“As if I’d have tried to deceive him over it—­writing that I was going to you when I wasn’t!  Roger’s a fool!  He ought to have known me better.  I’ve never yet been coward enough to lie about anything I wanted to do.”

“But, my dear”—­Penelope was openly distressed—­“we must send him a wire at once.  I’d no idea you’d quarrelled—­like that!  He’ll be out of his mind with anxiety.”

“He deserves to be”—­in a hard voice—­“for distrusting me.  No, Penny”—­as Penelope drew a form towards her preparatory to inditing a reassuring telegram.  “I won’t have a wire sent to him.  D’you hear?  I won’t have it!” Her foot beat excitedly on the floor.

Penelope signed and laid the telegraph form reluctantly aside.

“You agree with me, Kitten?” Nan whirled round upon Kitty for support.

“I’m not quite sure,” came the answer.  “You see, I’ve been away so long I really hardly know how things stand between you and Roger.”

“They stand exactly as they were.  I’ve promised to marry him in April.  And I’m going to keep my promise.”

“Not in April,” said Kitty very quietly.  “You won’t be able to marry him so soon.  Nan, dear, I’ve—­I’ve bad news for you.”  She hesitated and Nan broke in hastily: 

“Bad news?  What—­who is it?  Not—­not Uncle David?” Her voice rose a little shrilly.

Kitty nodded, her face very sorrowful.  And now Nan noticed that she had evidently been crying before she came to the flat.

“Yes.  He died this morning—­in his sleep.  They sent round to let me know.  He had told his man to do this if—­whenever it happened.  He didn’t want you to have the shock of receiving a wire.”

“I don’t think it would have been a shock,” said Nan at last, quietly.  “I think I knew it wouldn’t be very long before—­before he went away.  I’ve known . . . since Christmas.”

Her thoughts went back to that evening when she and St. John had sat talking together by the firelight in the West Parlour.  Yes, she had known—­ever since then—­that the Dark Angel was drawing near.  And now, now that she realised her old friend had stepped painlessly and peacefully across the border-line which divides this world we know from that other world whose ways are hidden from our sight, it came upon her less as a shock than as the inevitable ending of a long suspense.

“I wish—­I wish I’d seen him just once more,” she said wistfully.  “To—­to say good-bye.”

Kitty searched the depths of her bag and withdrew a sealed envelope.

“I think he must have known that,” she said gently.  “He left this to be given to you.”

She gave the letter into the girl’s hands and, signing to Penelope to follow her, quitted the room, leaving Nan alone with her dead.

In the silence of the empty room Nan read the last words, of her beloved Uncle David that would ever reach her.