"Sir George Mortimer, in Cavendish Square, might see her," remarked the doctor from Northampton. "Let's wire to him at once," urged Shaw, eagerly. "I accept your diagnosis entirely, yet I would like to have a specialist's opinion." Both medical men acquiesced, and a telegram was dispatched to the great specialist on brain trouble. As Redwood, seated at the library table, wrote the telegram, his close-set eyes met mine. The glance we exchanged was significant. "How did you know of this terrible affair, Kemball?" asked Shaw, abruptly, a little time afterwards. "I came over to invite you both to dine next Wednesday," I said, of course concealing the secret message I had received from the woman I had grown to love. In response, he gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, and walked down the hall in hasty impatience. Was his impatience an eagerness to hear of the poor girl's end? Surely that could not be, for was he not utterly devoted to her! And yet her seizure and her symptoms were exactly similar to those of poor Guy Nicholson! The whole day I remained there, watching closely Shaw's demeanour and his movements. Once, when he found me alone looking forth from the window of the morning-room, he came up beside me, and, looking at me with those small quick eyes of his, said-- "This is a terrible blow for me, Kemball. I have been quite frank with you, therefore be frank with me. I've not been blind. I've noticed that you've been in love with the poor child, and--well, to tell the truth, I secretly hoped that one day you would propose marriage to her. My own position is, as you know, one of hourly insecurity, and my keenest wish was to see her happily settled before--before the crisis." "You guessed the truth," was my reply. "I do love her--I love her more than I can tell." He sighed deeply, a sigh that echoed through the big silent room. "Well," he said, "our grief must be mutual, I fear. Petherbridge has just told me that they do not believe she can live another hour." Hardly had those words left his mouth when Mrs Howard ushered in a tall, thin, white-haired man, the eminent specialist, Sir George Mortimer. Without delay he was taken to the poor girl's room, and then a long period of anxious waiting, while the trio of medical men remained with the door closed. I suppose it must have been about an hour afterwards when, on passing along the carpeted corridor near Shaw's room, next that of Asta, I saw that the door was shut, but as I passed I heard him utter that peculiar whistle, yet so very low that it was only just audible. Twice I heard it, and halting, found myself involuntarily copying him. He was whistling so softly that it could scarcely be overheard beyond the walls of his own room. What was the meaning of that sound? Probably it only escaped his lips when deep in thought. Some men invariably whistle softly or hum tunes while dressing. Yet in any case it was curious that he should do this while Asta lay dying.