against the broken window to keep out the cold. In the bedroom Jane and Dr. Robinson looked after the dying woman. And dying she was, according to the young physician, for he did not think she would live much longer. Round the lonely cottage the sea-mist drifted white and thick, and the darkness deepened, until—as the saying goes—it could have been cut with a knife. Never was there so eerie and weary and sinister a vigil.
Towards four o'clock Hope fell into a doze, while resting in an arm-chair; but he was suddenly aroused from this by an exclamation from Sir Frank, who had remained wide awake, smoking cigar after cigar. In a moment the artist was on his feet, alert and quick-brained.
“What is it?”
Random made for the dining-room door rapidly.
“I thought I heard Painter call out,” he declared, and hastily sought the parlor, followed by Hope.
The room was empty, but the screen before the broken window had been thrown down, and they could see Painter's bulky form immediately outside.
“What the deuce is the matter?” demanded Random, entering. “Did you call out, Painter. I fancied I heard something.”
The constable came in again.
“I did call out, sir,” he confessed. “I was half asleep in that chair, when I suddenly became wide awake, and believed I saw a face looking at me round the corner of the screen. I jumped up, calling for you, sir, and upset the screen.”
“Well? well?” demanded Sir Frank impatiently, and seeing that the man hesitated.