"Yes. He died this morning--in his sleep. They sent round to let me know. He had told his man to do this if--whenever it happened. He didn't want you to have the shock of receiving a wire."

"I don't think it would have been a shock," said Nan at last, quietly.

"I think I knew it wouldn't be very long before--before he went away.

I've known . . . since Christmas."

Her thoughts went back to that evening when she and St. John had sat talking together by the firelight in the West Parlour. Yes, she had known--ever since then--that the Dark Angel was drawing near. And now, now that she realised her old friend had stepped painlessly and peacefully across the border-line which divides this world we know from that other world whose ways are hidden from our sight, it came upon her less as a shock than as the inevitable ending of a long suspense.

"I wish--I wish I'd seen him just once more," she said wistfully.

"To--to say good-bye."

Kitty searched the depths of her bag and withdrew a sealed envelope.

"I think he must have known that," she said gently. "He left this to be given to you."

She gave the letter into the girl's hands and, signing to Penelope to follow her, quitted the room, leaving Nan alone with her dead.

In the silence of the empty room Nan read the last words, of her beloved Uncle David that would ever reach her.

"I think this is good-bye, Nan," he had written. "But don't grieve overmuch, my dear. If you knew how long a road to travel it has seemed since Annabel went away, you would be glad for me. Will you try to be?

Always remember that the road was brightened by many flowers along the wayside--and one of those flowers has been our good friendship, yours and mine. We've been comrades, Nan, which is a far better thing than most relatives achieve. And if sometimes you feel sad and miss the old friendship--as I know you will--just remember that I'm only in the next room. People are apt to make a great to-do about death. But, after all, it's merely stepping from one of G.o.d's rooms into the next.

"I don't want to talk much about money matters, but I must just say this--that all I have will be yours, just as all my heart was yours.

"I hope life will be kind to you, my dear--kinder than you hope or expect."

There were many who would find the world the poorer for lack of the kindly, gallant spirit which had pa.s.sed into "G.o.d's next room," but to Nan the old man's death meant not only the loss of a beloved friend, but the withdrawal from her life of a strong, restraining influence which, unconsciously to herself, had withheld her from many a rash action into which her temperament would otherwise have hurried her.

It seemed a very climax of the perversity of fate that now, at the very moment when the pain and bitterness of things were threatening to submerge her, Death's relentless fingers should s.n.a.t.c.h away the one man on earth who, with his wise insight and h.o.a.rded experience of life, might have found a way to bring peace and healing to her troubled soul.

She spent the rest of the day quietly in her room, and when she reappeared at dinner she was perfectly composed, although her eyes still bore traces of recent tears. Against the black of the simple frock she wore, her face and throat showed pale and clear like some delicate piece of sculpture.

Penelope greeted her with kindly reproach.

"You hardly touched the lunch I sent up for you," she said.

Nan, shook her head, smiling faintly.

"I've been saying good-bye to Uncle David," she answered quietly. "I didn't want anything to eat."

Kitty, who had remained at the flat, regarded her with some concern.

The girl had altered immensely since she had last seen her before going abroad. Her face had worn rather fine and bore an indefinable look of strain. Kitty sighed, then spoke briefly.

"Well, you'll certainly eat some dinner," she announced with firmness.

"And, Ralph, you'd better unearth a bottle of champagne from somewhere.

She wants something to pick her up a bit."

Under Kitty's kindly, lynx-eyed gaze Nan dared not refuse to eat and drink what was put before her, and she was surprised, when dinner was over, to find how much better she felt in consequence. Prosaic though it may appear, the fact remains that the strain and anguish of parting, even from those we love best on earth, can be mitigated by such material things as food and drink. Or is it that these only strengthen the body to sustain the tortured soul within it?

After dinner Ralph deserted to his club, and the three women drew round the fire, talking desultorily, as women will, and avoiding as though by common consent matters that touched them too nearly. Presently the maid, came noiselessly into the firelit room.

"A gentleman has called to see Miss Davenant," she said, addressing her mistress.

Nan's heart missed a beat. It was Peter--she was sure of it--Peter, who had come back to her! In the long watches of the night he had found out that they could not part . . . not like this . . . never to see each other any more! It was madness. And he had come to tell her so.

The agony of the interminable night had been his as well as hers.

"Did he give any name?" Her violet eyes were almost black with excitement.

"No, miss. He is in the sitting-room."

Slowly Nan made her way across the hall, one hand pressed against her breast to still the painful throbbing of her heart. Outside the room she hesitated a moment; then, with a quick indrawing of her breath, she opened the door and went in.

"_Roger_!"

She shrank back and stood gazing at him dumbly, silent with the shock of sudden and undreamed-of disappointment. She had been so sure, so _sure_ that it was Peter! And yet, jerked suddenly back to the reality of things, she almost smiled at her own certainty. Peter was too strong a man to renounce and then retract his renunciation twenty-four hours later.

Trenby, who had been standing staring into the fire, turned at the sound of her entrance. He looked dog-tired, and his eyes were sunken as though sleep had not visited them recently. At the sight of her a momentary expression of what seemed to be unutterable relief flashed across his face, then vanished, leaving him with bent brows and his under-jaw thrust out a little.

"Roger!" repeated Nan in astonishment.

"Yes," he replied gruffly. "Are you surprised to see me?"

"Certainly I am. Why have you come? Why have you followed me here?"

"I've come to take you back," he said arrogantly.

Her spirit rose in instant revolt.

"You might have saved yourself the trouble," she flashed back angrily.

"I'm not coming. I'll return when I've finished my visit to Penelope."

"You'll come back with me now--to-night," he replied doggedly. "We can catch the night mail and I've a car waiting below."

"Then it can wait! Good heavens, Roger! D'you think I'll submit to be made a perfect fool of--fetched back like a child?"

He took a step towards her.

"And do you think that _I'll_ submit to be made a fool of?" he asked in a voice of intense anger. "To be made a fool of by your rushing away from my house in my absence--to have the servants gossiping--not to know what has become of you--"

"I left a note for you," she interrupted. "And you didn't believe what I told you in it."

"No," he acknowledged. "I didn't. I was afraid . . . Good G.o.d, Nan!"

he broke out with sudden pa.s.sion. "Haven't you any idea of what I've been through this last forty-eight hours? . . . It's been h.e.l.l!"

She looked at him as though amazed.

"I don't understand," she said impatiently. "Please explain."