There was a silence.  Margaret regarded him in stony fury.  She was deadly white.

“Do you mean that Throckmorton, Kirby, & Son have—­has failed?” she asked.  “Do you mean that my money—­the money that my father left me--is gone?  Does Mr. Bannister say so?  Why—­why has it never occurred to you to warn me?”

“I did warn you.  I did try to tell you, in July—­why, all the world knew how things were going!”

If, on the last word, there crept into his voice the plea that even a strong man makes to his women for sympathy, for solace, Margaret’s eyes killed it.  John, turning to go, gave her what consolation he could.

“Margaret, I can only say I’m sorry.  I tried—­Bannister knows how I tried to hold my own.  But I was pretty young when your father died, and there was no one to help me learn.  I’m glad it doesn’t mean actual suffering for you.  Some day, perhaps, we’ll get some of it back.  God knows I hope so.  I’ve not meant much to you.  Your marriage has cost you pretty dear.  But I’m going to do the only thing I can for you.”

Silence followed.  Margaret presently roused herself.

“I suppose this can be kept from the papers?  We needn’t be discussed and pointed at in the streets?” she asked heavily, her face a mask of distaste.

“That’s impossible,” said John, briefly.

“To some people nothing is impossible,” Margaret said.

Her husband turned again without a word, and left her.  Afterward she remembered the sick misery in his eyes, the whiteness of his face.

What did she do then?  She didn’t know.  Did she go at once to the dressing-table?  Did she ring for Louise, or was she alone as she slowly got herself into a loose wrapper and unpinned her hair?

How long was it before she heard that horrible cry in the hall?  What was it—­that, or the voices and the flying footsteps, that brought her, shaken and gasping, to her feet?

She never knew.  She only knew that she was in John’s dressing-room, and that the servants were clustered, a sobbing, terrified group, in the doorway.  John’s head, heavy, with shut eyes, was on her shoulder; John’s limp body was in her arms.  They were telling her that this was the bottle he had emptied, and that he was dead.

II

It was a miracle that they had got her husband to the hospital alive, the doctors told Margaret, late that night.  His life could be only a question of moments.  It was extraordinary that he should live through the night, they told her the next morning; but it could not last more than a few hours now.  It was impossible for John Kirby to live, they said; but John Kirby lived.

He lived, to struggle through agonies undreamed of, back to days of new pain.  There were days and weeks and months when he lay, merely breathing, now lightly, now just a shade more deeply.

There came a day when great doctors gathered about him to exult that he undoubtedly, indisputably winced when the hypodermic needle hurt him.  There was a great day, in late summer, when he muttered something.  Then came relapses, discouragements, the bitter retracing of steps.