She had turned her head. Her eyes never wandered from that small yellowish bundle. Up to the last she had let it lie on the nurse's knee. She had not dared to take it; perhaps she felt she was unworthy. He followed her gaze. "He's very ill," said she. "Look at him." The nurse moved a fold of blanket from the child's face, and Stanistreet gazed at Tyson's son. He tried to speak. "Sh--sh--" whispered Mrs. Nevill Tyson. "He's sleeping." "Dying, sir," muttered the nurse. The woman drew in her knees, tightening her hold on the child. Her face was stained with tears. (She had loved the baby before she loved Pinker. Remorse moved her and righteous indignation.) Mrs. Nevill Tyson's nostrils twitched; deep black rings were round her eyes. Passion and hunger were in them, but there were no tears. And as Stanistreet looked from one woman to the other, he understood. He picked up the bundle and removed it to its mother's knee. All her soul passed into the look wherewith she thanked him. Swinny, tear-stained but inexorable, stood aloof, like rigid Justice, weighing her mistress in the balance. "He's dying, Molly," he said gently. She shook her head. "No; he's not dying. God isn't cruel. He won't let him die." She turned the child's face to her breast, hoping perhaps that his hands would move in the old delicious way. He did not stir, and she laid him on his back again and looked at him. His lips and the hollows under his eyes were blue. The collapse had come. Louis knelt down and put his hand over the tiny heart. A spasm passed over the baby's face, simulating a smile. Then Mrs. Nevill Tyson fell to smiling too. "See"--she said. But Stanistreet had seen enough. He rose from his knees and left her. CHAPTER X CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE Well, if she wouldn't look at him when he was alive, she might show some feeling now he's dead. (So Justice.) She showed no feeling. That is to say, none perceptible to the eyes of Justice. On Thursday morning she heard from Tyson. A short note: "I am more sorry than words can say. I wish I could be with you, but I'm kept in this infernal place till the beginning of next week. I hope the little man will pull through. Take care of yourself," and the usual formula. She sat down and wrote a telegram, brutally brief, as telegrams must be. "Died yesterday. Funeral Friday, two o'clock. Can you come?" Two hours later the answer came in one word--"Impossible." She flushed violently and set her face like a flint. But she showed no feeling. None when they screwed the baby into a box lined with white satin; none when they lowered him into his grave and piled flowers and earth upon him; none when, as they drove home from the funeral, Mrs. Wilcox's pent-up emotions broke loose in a torrent of words.