tions as to the future—she knew it was impossible to tell. But there were no immediate signs of a fatal ending: the patient had rallied well, and the general conditions were not unfavourable.
“You have heard from Mr. Amherst?” Dr. Garford concluded.
“Not yet … he may be travelling,” Justine faltered, unwilling to say that her telegram had been returned. As she spoke there was a tap on the door, and a folded paper was handed in—a telegram telephoned from the village.
“Amherst gone South America to study possibilities cotton growing have cabled our correspondent Buenos Ayres.”
Concealment was no longer possible. Justine handed the message to the surgeon.
“Ah—and there would be no chance of finding his address among Mrs. Amherst’s papers?”
“I think not—no.”
“\Vell—we must keep her alive, Wyant.”
“Yes, sir.”
At dusk, Justine sat in the library, waiting for Cicely to be brought to her. A lull had descended on the house—a new order developed out of the morning’s chaos. With soundless steps, with lowered voices, the
machinery of life was carried on. And Justine, caught
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