Mr. Malakite’s bedroom-lamp was of a very different appearance from that old green one in Christie’s room. It was a small ship’s-lantern; and her father was wont to read deep into the night, so Christie had once told him, with this lantern balanced upon his knees as he lay in bed.

The ship’s-lantern did not throw a very strong light; and Wolf, as he laid his fingers on the old man’s forehead, with a vague notion of establishing the fact of life’s extinction, was aware of Christie’s figure at the window as a taut bowstring of quivering feeling.

“He does not breathe. It must be the end, Chris,” he murmured gently.

The girl turned abruptly and came back. Twice, as she crossed that little space between the window and the bed, he saw her straighten herself up, hold back her head, and shut her eyes, clenching her fingers tightly as she did so, and making an odd little indrawn gasp, as if she were swallowing the very dregs of all human bitterness.