He put his arm round her; he drew her head against his shoulder; and she
looked up into his face, trying to smile.

"You won't leave me?" she whispered hoarsely.

He laid his hand upon her forehead. It was damp with the first sweat of
her agony.

He carried her to her room and sent for Mrs. Wilcox and the doctor and
the nurse. Then he went back and began turning the things in and out of
his portmanteau in a melancholy, undecided manner. Mrs. Wilcox came and
found him doing it.

"I'm not going," he said in answer to her indignant stare.

"I'm glad to hear it. Because if you _do_ go--"

"I am not going."

But Mrs. Wilcox's maternal instinct had subdued her fear of Nevill Tyson,
and he respected her defiance even more than he had respected her fear.
"If you go you'll put her in a fever, and _I_ won't answer for the
consequences."

He said nothing, for he had a sense of justice, and it was her hour.
Besides, he was no little conscience-stricken.

He went out to look for Stanistreet, and found him in the courtyard,
piling his own luggage on the dog-cart. He put his hand on his shoulder.