“I wonder if any of the bodies will ever come ashore?” he said.

“God knows!” rapped Dunbar; “we can’t even guess how many were aboard.  You might as well come along, Sowerby, I’ve just heard from Dr. Cumberly.  Mrs. Leroux"...

“Dead?”

“Dying,” replied the inspector; “expected to go at any moment.  But the doctor tells me that she may—­it’s just possible—­recover consciousness before the end; and there’s a bare chance"...

“I see,” said Sowerby eagerly; “of course she must know!”

The two hastened to Palace Mansions.  Despite the lateness of the hour, Whitehall was thronged with vehicles, and all the glitter and noise of midnight London surrounded them.

“It only seems like yesterday evening,” said Dunbar, as they mounted the stair of Palace Mansions, “that I came here to take charge of the case.  Damme! it’s been the most exciting I’ve ever handled, and it’s certainly the most disappointing.”

“It is indeed,” said Sowerby, gloomily, pressing the bell-button at the side of Henry Leroux’s door.

The door was opened by Garnham; and these two, fresh from the noise and bustle of London’s streets, stepped into the hushed atmosphere of the flat where already a Visitant, unseen but potent, was arrived, and now was beckoning, shadowlike, to Mira Leroux.

“Will you please sit down and wait,” said Garnham, placing chairs for the two Scotland Yard men in the dining-room.

“Who’s inside?” whispered Dunbar, with that note of awe in his voice which such a scene always produces; and he nodded in the direction of the lobby.

“Mr. Leroux, sir,” replied the man, “the nurse, Miss Cumberly, Dr. Cumberly and Miss Ryland"...

“No one else?” asked the detective sharply.

“And Mr. Gaston Max,” added the man.  “You’ll find whisky and cigars upon the table there, sir.”

He left the room.  Dunbar glanced across at Sowerby, his tufted brows raised, and a wry smile upon his face.

“In at the death, Sowerby!” he said grimly, and lifted the stopper from the cut-glass decanter.

In the room where Mira Leroux lay, so near to the Borderland that her always ethereal appearance was now positively appalling, a hushed group stood about the bed.

“I think she is awake, doctor,” whispered the nurse softly, peering into the emaciated face of the patient.

Mira Leroux opened her eyes and smiled at Dr. Cumberly, who was bending over her.  The poor faded eyes turned from the face of the physician to that of Denise Ryland, then to M. Max, wonderingly; next to Helen, whereupon an indescribable expression crept into them; and finally to Henry Leroux, who, with bowed head, sat in the chair beside her.  She feebly extended her thin hand and laid it upon his hair.  He looked up, taking the hand in his own.  The eyes of the dying woman filled with tears as she turned them from the face of Leroux to Helen Cumberly—­who was weeping silently.