He went back to his chair again, however, and fought it out with himself. Pah! what was it, after all, but to bring to a quicker end a life that the doctors had all but declared gone? What was it they had said? So deep was the intensity of his desire to go back to that consultation of the two doctors and their verdict that he hardly heard a faint movement in the room, a slow stirring of the curtains that half hid the bed.

At last he remembered. If she were to live for a certain number of hours there might be hope—a vague hope truly, said Dr. Bland, and not to be depended on, but a hope. If not, she must die. She had lived for many hours now, almost to the time mentioned, and still she breathed.

The nurse came to the door and opened it. He recollected himself in a moment, but hardly dared turn his face to hers. He told her by a motion of his hand, a softly muttered word, to go away; that the patient was still doing well, that he had hopes, that he wished to stay there. And the woman withdrew, praising him in her heart as a husband full of love and grief and anguish.

It was a slight interruption, but it half maddened him for the moment, although his iron nerve carried him through it.

He rose. The day was now at an end, and he lit a night-lamp with a careful hand—a hand that never trembled; and then he went again, and stared down at her. If she woke again to life there would be no longer life for him. It was to be either he or she.

The face was lying helpless, looking up at him, as it were, showing ghastly in the dim light. He had had no actual design in his mind until his eyes rested on those lips, but then all at once the means to the end became quite clear. His mind grew bright as day. He saw it all! It would not take long, and it was sure—and safe.

He went swiftly but noiselessly to a chest of drawers at the farther end of the room, and drew out the top shelf—always with a marvellous noiselessness. This drawer that usually—even in the broad daylight—creaked loudly when opened, now beneath the velvet fingers gave no sound whatever. He stooped forward, peering into the drawer, moving a thing here and there, and finally brought out something—a soft linen substance—a handkerchief, apparently, and moved with it to the basin-stand near him.

A squalid basin-stand of common deal. Certainly the poor, detested creature now lying prone upon the bed, utterly at his mercy, had not cost him much—had at least one virtue, that of prudence. Of course, if she had cost him more, if she had brought him by her extravagance to his last penny, she would have been of some importance in his eyes; he might even have learned to see something in her, in spite of her huge defects; but she had done nothing beyond being ugly—that, it must be allowed, she had done quite handsomely—and stupid, and vulgar, and all the rest of it.

He raised the water-jug. It made a little sound, and he looked behind him. No—no one had heard. That no one could see he was sure. Who was there in the room save he—and—and that unsightly object on the bed? He looked sharply, however, round the room, peering here and there, as people will who feel a presence yet cannot see it; but he saw nothing.

He abandoned his first thought of pouring water into the basin, and put back the jug very slowly into its original place. How foolish that first thought was!

With another half-unconscious glance round him he lowered the handkerchief into the jug—slowly, delicately—until the water surrounded his hand and it. How cool the water was—how refreshing! He would have a bath presently—afterwards. Cold water was the best of all pick-me-ups.

He lifted the handkerchief, cautiously, yet a little drip fell from it. One-two-three! They sounded like a knell from hell! They terrified him—for a moment.

He glanced suddenly over his shoulder, once again to the bed where that silent form lay. Had she heard? Had she known? He thought he saw a movement of the curtains, but a second later he dismissed the fancy with a deep indrawn breath.

He was in that state of mind now that even if she had known— if she had been capable of rising and denouncing him—he would still have caught her by the throat and pressed her back upon her pillows and deliberately strangled the life out of her. It was decided. Fate had sent her so far upon her road, but now her travelling was over, and the end of her was to be bitter and ignominious and unknown.

The handkerchief was saturated. He went towards the bed and bent down. The terrible open mouth, with the hideousness of it, seemed to give him a demoniac courage. He folded the cloth and laid it softly over it and the faintly breathing nostrils. He pressed the damp covering down—down—moulding it to the nose and mouth as one might who was taking a cast of some one dead and unknown to him, and with quite as strong a calm and carefulness.

A moment—a frightful moment—and then she stirred, the big head swayed from side to side. Darkham—white, rigid—watched her as she moved in her terrible impotence, but still held the cloth. It was but a momentary struggle, after all; suddenly it ceased. She lay now, rigid, white—the cloth still upon her face; her eyes had opened in the dying struggle and looked up at him, pale, horrible. But her breath—her breath was gone. She was dead!

A moment—a frightful moment—and then she stirred. It was but a momentary struggle after all; suddenly it ceased. She was dead!

He stood for a long time watching her. At least it seemed a long time. He had released his hold of the death-cloth, but it still lay on her face, covering the lips and nose, and leaving only those frightfully glaring eyes to be seen. They were wide open, and seemed fixed on him. He laid his hand upon her lids, and with a brutal haste forced back the lids upon the dying eyes.

He drew in his breath sharply, and leaning against one of the four posts, compelled himself to listen—to watch.

Not a sound in the house. And not a sound here, either. The breathing had ceased—was still. All was over. Those men had been right, then. There was so little life left in her that recovery was impossible. If he had only waited, nature would have done its own work unaided.

Once again that mad rush of exultation ran within her veins. Once again he sat in the room with Agatha Nesbitt—saw her, listened to her charming voice. He stooped over the woman in the bed, and in a wild ecstasy tore the murderous cloth from off her face. A smothered yell of triumph broke from him. She was dead—dead— dead!