All three had forgotten Travers, and yet from the
moment they had begun to speak he had been awake and listening. He sat
up now, leaning upon his elbow.
"Nicholson!" he said faintly.
Nicholson turned and came to his side.
"Hullo!" he said. "Awake, are you? How are you?"
Travers made no immediate answer; he took Nicholson's hand in a
feverish clasp and drew him nearer.
"I am in great pain," he said. "You don't need to pretend. I know. The
fear of death has been on me all day. Just now I am not afraid. Is
there no hope?"
"You mean--for us? None."
Travers nodded.
"I heard you talking, but I wanted to make sure. It has all been my
fault--every bit of it. It's decent of you not to make me feel it
more. You are not to blame--her. You know I tempted her, I made her
help me. She isn't responsible. At any rate, she made a clean breast
of it--that's something to her credit. I didn't want to--I never meant
to. I am not the sort that repents. But this last week you have been
so decent, and Lois such a plucky little soul--she ought to hate
me--and perhaps she does--but she has done her best. Nicholson, are
you listening? Can you hear what I say? It's so damned hard for me to
talk."
"I can hear," Nicholson said kindly. "Don't worry about what can't be
helped." In spite of everything, he pitied the man, and his tone
showed it.
Travers lifted himself higher, clinging to the other's shoulder.
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