Somehow or other he managed to shake some sort of smile at her. Somehow or other he stammered: “No—go—on, go on! I want you to tell me.”
“But, John darling”
“Tell me, Janey!”
“There’s nothing to tell,” she said, wondering. “He was one of the first-class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on board. . . . But he seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had a severe attack in the afternoon—excitement—nervousness, I think, about arriving. And after that he never recovered.”
“But why didn’t the stewardess”
“Oh, my dear—the stewardess!” said Janey. “What would he have felt? And besides . . . he might have wanted to leave a message . . . to”
“Didn’t he?” muttered Hammond. “Didn’t he say anything?”
“No, darling, not a word!” She shook her head softly. “All the time I was with him he was too weak . . . he was too weak even to move a finger. . . .”
Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so soft, so chill, seemed to hover in the air, to rain into his breast like snow.
The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a sharp sound and the room was colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge,
