TELLS HOW CLAIRE WENT TO THE PLAY; AND HOW SHE SAW THE GOLDEN CLASP.

Tom was dying.  His depositions had been taken and signed with his failing hand; the surgeon had given his judgment, and my friend was lying upon his bed, face to face with the supreme struggle.

The knife had missed his heart by little more than an inch, but the inward bleeding was killing him and there was no hope.  He knew it, and though the reason of that cowardly blow was a mystery to him, he asked few questions, but faced his fate with the old boyish pluck.  His eyes as they turned to mine were lit with the old boyish love.

Once only since his evidence was taken had his lips moved, and then to murmur her name.  I had sent for her:  a short note with only the words “Tom is dying and wants to speak with you.”  So, while we waited, I sat holding my friend’s hand and busy with my own black thoughts.

I knew that he had received the blow meant for me, and that the secret of this too, as well as that other assault in the gambling-den, hung on the Golden Clasp and the Great Ruby.  Whatever that secret was, the yellow woman knew of it, and held it beneath the glitter of her awful eyes.  She it was that had directed the murderous knife in the hands of Simon Colliver.  Bitterly I cursed the folly which had prompted my rash words in the theatre, and so sacrificed my friend.  With what passion, even in my despair, I thanked Heaven that the act which led to Colliver’s mistake had been Tom’s and not mine!  Yet, what consolation was it?  It was I, not he, that should be lying there.  He had given his life for his friend—­a friend who had already robbed him of his love.  O false and traitorous friend!

In my humiliation I would have taken my hand from his, but a feeble pressure and a look of faint reproach restrained me.  So he lay there and I sat beside him, and both counted the moments until Claire should come—­or death.

A knock at the door outside.  Tom heard it and in his eyes shone a light of ineffable joy.  In answer to his look I dropped his hand and went to meet her.

“Claire, how can I thank you for this speed?”

“How did it happen?”

“Murdered!” said I.  “Foully struck down last night as he left the theatre.”

Her eyes looked for a moment as though they would have questioned me further, but she simply asked—­

“Does he want to see me?”

“When he heard he was to die he asked for you.  Claire, if you only knew how he longs to see you; had you only seen his eyes when he heard you come!  You know why—­”

She nodded gravely.

“I suppose,” she said slowly, “we had better say nothing of—­”

“Nothing,” I answered; “it is better so.  If there be any knowledge beyond the grave he will know all soon.”

Claire was silent.

“Yes,” she assented at length, “it is better so.  Take me to him.”