Desmond watched her for a moment. Her face looked drawn and tired
now that her eyelids, with their long sweeping black lashes, were
closed, shutting off the extraordinary luminosity of her eyes. As
he stood silently contemplating her, she stirred and moaned in
her sleep and muttered some word three or four times to herself.
Desmond was conscious of a great feeling of compassion for this
strangely beautiful creature. Knowing as he did of the
hundred-eyed monster of the British Secret Service that was
watching her, he found himself thinking how frail, how helpless,
how unprotected she looked, lying there in the flickering light
of the fire.
A step resounded behind him and old Martha shuffled into the
room, carefully shading the lamp she still carried so that its
rays should not fall on the face of the sleeper.
"I don't know as I've done right, sir," she mumbled, "letting the
pore lady wait here for you like this, but I couldn't hardly help
it, sir! She says as how she must see you, and seeing as how your
first tellygram said you was coming at half-past nine, I lets her
stop on!"
"When did she arrive" asked Desmond softly.
"About six o'clock," answered the old, woman. "Walked all the way
up from Wentfield Station, too, sir, and that cold she was when
she arrived here, fair blue with the cold she was, pore dear.
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