Her husband turned again without a word, and left her. Afterward she
remembered the sick misery in his eyes, the whiteness of his face.

What did she do then? She didn't know. Did she go at once to the
dressing-table? Did she ring for Louise, or was she alone as she
slowly got herself into a loose wrapper and unpinned her hair?

How long was it before she heard that horrible cry in the hall? What
was it--that, or the voices and the flying footsteps, that brought
her, shaken and gasping, to her feet?

She never knew. She only knew that she was in John's dressing-room,
and that the servants were clustered, a sobbing, terrified group, in
the doorway. John's head, heavy, with shut eyes, was on her
shoulder; John's limp body was in her arms. They were telling her
that this was the bottle he had emptied, and that he was dead.




II


It was a miracle that they had got her husband to the hospital
alive, the doctors told Margaret, late that night. His life could be
only a question of moments. It was extraordinary that he should live
through the night, they told her the next morning; but it could not
last more than a few hours now. It was impossible for John Kirby to
live, they said; but John Kirby lived.