while, and then, as though strength failed them, fell away.
"It is growing dark," she said. "Harold, are you there? Come nearer—I—I want you to—"
There fell again the silence—then a step sounded behind Varge, and Doctor MacCausland leaned quickly over the bed.
Varge raised his head. She lay back upon the pillows, a great stillness, a great peace upon her face—as though she were asleep. For a moment he looked at her, then he rose from his knees and turned away, seeing nothing, heeding nothing, walking from the room as a blind man walks.
He reached the hall—and, shocked, stood suddenly still, as a fearful cry in shuddering cadence, a cry of the damned, rang through the house.
"Dead!"—it was Harold Merton's voice.
And then the man came rushing upon him from the room, and was pawing at his arms, his shoulders.
"She's dead!" he babbled horribly, wildly, insanely. "She's dead—but you said you'd never speak, Varge—you swore you'd never speak—"
Upon Varge in a lightning flash, as he stared into the distorted face, swept the meaning of it all—he had not thought of that; he had not expected Mrs. Merton's death—the other had—had expected it for days—and now—Merton was still grasping at him, grasping at his hands; still babbling in the same horrid way.
"—You swore you'd never speak, Varge—you remember that day in the penitentiary—you swore you'd never speak—you—"
Doctor Kreelmar had stepped suddenly from the door-
