"Philip, how long you have been!" cried the sufferer impatiently, as Rondelet entered the small room where he lay, the one vivid thing in the white and spotless cell.
"I am sorry, Robert, I could not come sooner; but you are so much better, you really do not need me," Rondelet said gently.
"I need you more than ever, for I have something to say to you."
The physician shook his head and touched his patient's wrist; but Robert would not be denied.
"Philip, dear Philip," he cried, "let me talk to you to-night! I must tell you something that weighs upon me."
Another repetition! Save that it was a man's face lying flushed and pain-racked among the pillows, a man's voice that pleaded with him, Philip felt that he might have been reacting the scene of weeks ago, when Therese had told him the story of her wrongs and grief. He was so startled by the vivid recollection that for the moment he said nothing, and only took his friend's hot hand in both of his.
"Philip, if I die—and I know that I may die—promise me that you will tell Margaret Ruysdale the secret I am going to confide to you now."
"I promise."
