“Edward,” began Fayre impulsively; but Kean cut him off. “There’s one thing you can do for me, old chap,” he said swiftly. “I want to see Cynthia. I’ve got something I must say to her, something that I cannot leave unsaid. It’s early still and she won’t have gone to bed. Will you go round there now and ask her if I can see her? What I’ve got to say won’t take more than ten minutes.” Fayre stared at him in astonishment. “Don’t you realize that, if you are going, you must go now?” he expostulated. “Edward, there’s no time to lose. For God’s sake, don’t take a chance like that!” “There’s time for that,” said Kean dryly. “I will go straight from there. I can catch the night boat to Ostend. I don’t suppose we shall meet again, Hatter, and it’s the last thing I shall ask you to do for me. Will you do it?” “I’ll do it,” answered Fayre reluctantly, “but I think it’s sheer madness at this juncture.” “I want you to go to her now and ask her if I can come round. Don’t tell her anything else. If she can see me, ring me up here and I’ll start at once. After I am gone you can tell her the whole story, but get this through as quickly as you can first.” Fayre moved to the door. Half-way he stopped as though he had been shot. “Good God, Edward!” he cried. “Sybil! You can’t leave her without a word!” Kean straightened his shoulders with a jerk, as though he were bracing himself to face something he was seeing clearly for the first time. “Sybil died about an hour before I telephoned to you this evening,” he said slowly. Chapter XXVI Afterwards, in bitter anguish and remorse, Fayre cursed himself for his blindness. At first he had been deceived by Kean’s attitude of cold detachment towards the whole gruesome business and the impression he had managed to convey that he had definitely decided on flight. Later, the news of Sybil Kean’s death had stunned him and he had gone blindly on his errand to Cynthia, dazed with grief and consternation. But he could not forgive himself for not having insisted on staying by his friend in his extremity. Instead, he had carried out Kean’s instructions to the letter, had found Cynthia still up and had interviewed her in the rather dreary little room that had been her uncle’s study. He had sent a message by the servant, asking to see her alone, and she came to him, curiosity and apprehension in her eyes. John Leslie was never out of her mind in these days and, though it would seem that the worst had happened, she lived in hourly dread of some further attack on her fortitude. “Have you come from John?” she asked piteously. “When will they let me see him?” He took both her hands in his and drew her to him.