I said I had arrived in Paris only that afternoon, and had heard, by chance, that Mrs. Storm was ill. My presence there seemed, you can see, to require a more definite explanation than any he might think fit to give me. One felt, with Napier, uncomfortably familiar to be asking after Iris in this obscure place at this late hour. He and Iris had been “kids.” Then I thought, comically, of the two scrawled names on the grubby slip of paper. Well, I seemed to have rights too. More rights than Napier, really. Conrad Masters had no instructions to be nice to Napier. Poor Napier.... “But,” he said, slowly, slowly, “surely she’s better by now? I only just called on the off-chance ... really wanted air after the train journey more than anything else. Surely ... what?” I stared at him. What to say? You see, the sudden, white way he was staring at me made me feel terribly canny of anything I might say. Besides, one treated Napier _differently_. “Better?” I repeated. “Well....” “But, look here,” he said, protested.... It was dark, there between the dim lodge and the night. Why on earth didn’t the man come in? “Venice and I are going south to-morrow, and I just thought I’d inquire--but, look here, I never dreamt that she....” I at last grasped the fact that he had known she was ill. He was the only one among us who had known she was ill. One kid had known that the other kid was ill ... and had waited until, on his way south, he could conveniently come round and inquire. Well! “You had better come in, hadn’t you?” I said. I simply couldn’t say slap-out that Iris was ill nearly to death. You couldn’t say things like that to those dark, troubled eyes. You protected Napier from your own impulses, always. A favourite not of the gods alone.... But he still stood there in the darkness, staring at me very strangely and scowling in that funny, attractive way he had. Whenever I think of Napier I can see that Napier scowl and I can hear that involuntary “what?” he would tack on to questions. “Look here, something’s the matter.” His voice trembled absurdly.... “Something serious. What?” “She’s very ill,” I think I said. “Very!” he snapped. “What? You mean ... really ill? What?” “I think so,” I said. “Yes.” I looked into the room, avoiding those eyes. The lay sister, a pair of horn spectacles on her nose, and without a sign of interest in us, was mending the heel of a black woollen stocking, one end of which lay coiled in a black tin box. I couldn’t somehow look at Napier just then. That, you see, was the first hint I had of the thing, and though it was no more than a hint, it tore at one. The look in Napier’s eyes, I mean. The man’s heart was in his eyes.... “Look here,” he said sharply, “I don’t understand this. What? I mean, I’d no idea it was....” “I don’t know anything,” I said, “except just that she’s ill.” We stared at each other. “As ill,” I said, “as can be.”