Monica wandered up and down the dark hall, revolving many things in her mind. What had brought Conrad so suddenly back at this melancholy time of the year? She had believed him abroad with his sister, with whom he seemed to have spent his time since his disappearance early in the spring. What had brought him back now? And why did he so haunt the frowning, treacherous cliffs of Trevlyn? Was he mad? But why did his madness always drive him to this spot? She asked many such questions of herself, but she could answer none of them. At last Tom came down. His face looked as if carved in flint. She could not read the meaning of his glance. “Is he dead?” she asked softly. “He cannot last long. If he has any relations near, they should be telegraphed for.” “His sister is in Italy, I believe. There is no one else that I know of.” “Then there is nothing to be done. He is sinking fast. He cannot live many hours. I doubt if he will last the night.” Monica’s face was pale and grave. “Poor Conrad!” she said, beneath her breath. Tom started, and made a quick movement as of repulsion. “No one could wish him to live,” he began, almost roughly; “he has hardly a whole bone in his body.” “Is he conscious?” “No, nor likely to be. It is not at all probable he will ever open his eyes again. He will most likely sink quietly, without a sound or a sign. I have done all I can for him. Somebody must be with him to watch him, I suppose. It can only be a question of hours now.” A dark cloud hung upon the doctor’s brow. His thoughts were preoccupied. Presently he spoke again—a sort of mutter between his teeth. “He ought not to be allowed to die here—under _this_ roof. It is monstrous—hateful to think of! Nothing can save him. Yet I suppose it would be murder to move him now.” Monica looked up quickly. “Move him! Tom, what are you thinking of?” “I know it cannot be done,” was the answer, spoken in a stern, dogged tone. “Yet I repeat what I said before: he ought not to be under this roof.” There was a gentle reproach in the look that Monica bent upon him. “My husband’s roof and mine will always be a refuge for any whose need is as sore as his. Sometimes I think, Tom, that you are the very hardest man I ever met. His life, I know, is terribly stained; yet it is not for us to judge him.” It seemed as if Tom were agitated. He gave no outward sign, but his face was pale, his manner curiously harsh and peremptory. “You do not know,” he said. “Your husband——” She stopped him by a gesture.