"Yes. I ought not to have gone to sleep while Dick was ill." "You needed sleep." "Is--is he better?" "He is somewhat better." "I will go to him." "He does not need you just now." "Has the doctor found out what is the matter with him?" "He thinks he has." Mrs. Stoddart spoke very slowly. "As far as I understand, there is a cerebral lesion, and it is possible that it may not be as serious as he thought at first. It may have been aggravated for the moment by drink, the effects of which are passing off. But there is always the risk--in this case a great risk--that the injury to the brain may increase. In any case, his condition is very grave. His family ought to be communicated with at once." Annette stared at her in silence. "They _must_ be summoned," said Mrs. Stoddart. "But I don't know who they are," said Annette. "I don't even know his real name. He is called Mr. Le Geyt. It is the name he rides under." Mrs. Stoddart reddened. She had had her doubts. "A wife should know her husband's name," she said. "But, you see, I'm not his wife." There was a moment's silence. Mrs. Stoddart's eyes fell on Annette's wedding ring. "That is nothing," said Annette. "Dick said I had better have one, and he bought it in a shop before we started. I think I'll take it off. I hate wearing it." "No, no. Keep it on." There was another silence. "But you must know his address." "No. I know he is often in Paris. But I have only met him at--at a cabaret." "Could you trust me?" said Mrs. Stoddart humbly. Annette trembled, and her face became convulsed. "You are very kind," she said, "very kind,--getting the nurse, and helping, and this nice warm rug, and everything,--but I'm afraid I can't trust anyone any more. I've left off trusting people." CHAPTER IV "Et je m'en vais Au vent mauvais Qui m'emporte Deçà, delà, Pareille à la Feuille morte." VERLAINE. It was the second day of Dick's illness. Annette's life had revived somewhat, though the long sleep had not taken the strained look from her eyes. But Mrs. Stoddart's fears for her were momentarily allayed. Tears were what she needed, and tears were evidently a long way off. And Annette fought for the life of poor Dick as if he were indeed her bridegroom, and Mrs. Stoddart abetted her as if he were her only son. The illness was incalculable, abnormal. There were intervals of lucidity followed by long lapses into unconsciousness. There were hours in which he seemed to know them, but could neither speak nor move. There were times when it appeared as if the faint flame of life had flickered quite out, only to waver feebly up again.