He listened in the passage, and could hear hard stertorous breathing. Then he walked out in the garden, and looked at the early rime on the grass and fresh spring leaves. When he reentered the house, he felt startled at the sight of Mrs. Abel.

“How is your patient⁠—asleep, I think?” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness in his tone.

“He’s gone very deep, sir,” said Mrs. Abel. “He went off gradual between three and four o’clock. Would you please to go and look at him? I thought it no harm to leave him. My man’s gone afield, and the little girl’s seeing to the kettles.”

Bulstrode went up. At a glance he knew that Raffles was not in the sleep which brings revival, but in the sleep which streams deeper and deeper into the gulf of death.