“She could talk then?”
“Yes, after a fashion, but the thing that surprised me was that she spoke in English. She always insisted on talking French. You know, she hated the English.”
“What did she want with me?”
“That I cannot tell you. She said she had something that she must say to you at once. It is funny, she knew the number of your room. At first when she asked for you I would not let them send. I cannot have my clients disturbed in the middle of the night because a crazy old woman asks for them. You have the right to your sleep, I imagine. But when the doctor came he insisted. She gave us no peace and when I said she must wait till morning she cried.”
Ashenden looked at the assistant-manager. He seemed to find nothing at all touching in the scene he related.
“The doctor asked who you were and when I told him he said that perhaps she wished to see you because you were a compatriot.”
“Perhaps,” said Ashenden dryly.
“Well, I shall try to get a little sleep. I shall give the night-porter orders to wake me when everything is over. Fortunately the nights are long now and if everything goes well we may be able to get the body away before it is light.”
Ashenden went back into the room and immediately the dark eyes of the dying woman fixed upon him. He felt that it was incumbent upon him to say something, but as he spoke he reflected on the foolish way in which one speaks to the sick.
“I’m afraid you’re feeling very ill, Miss King.”
It seemed to him that a flash of anger crossed her eyes and Ashenden could not but imagine that she was exasperated by his futile words.
“You do not mind waiting?” asked the doctor.
“Of course not.”
It appeared that the night-porter had been roused by the ringing of the telephone from Miss King’s room, but on listening could get no one to speak. The bell continued to ring, so he went upstairs and knocked at the door. He entered with his passkey and found Miss King lying on the floor. The telephone had fallen too. It looked as though, feeling ill, she had taken off the receiver to call for help and then collapsed. The night-porter hurried to fetch the assistant-manager and together they had lifted her back into bed. Then the maid was wakened and the doctor sent for. It gave Ashenden a queer feeling to listen to the doctor giving him these facts in Miss King’s hearing. He spoke as though she could not understand his French. He spoke as though she were already dead.
Then the doctor said:
“Well, there is really nothing more that I can do. It is useless for me to stay. I can be rung up if there is any change.”
Ashenden, knowing that Miss King might remain in that condition for hours, shrugged his shoulders.
“Very well.”
The doctor patted her raddled cheek as though she were a child.
“You must try to sleep. I will come back in the morning.”
He packed up the dispatch-case in which he had his medical appliances, washed his hands and shuffled himself into a heavy coat. Ashenden accompanied him to the door and as he shook hands the doctor gave his prognosis in a pout of his bearded mouth. Ashenden, coming back, looked at the maid. She sat on the edge of a chair, uneasily, as though in the presence of death she feared to presume. Her broad, ugly face was bloated with fatigue.
“There’s no use in your staying up,” Ashenden said to her. “Why don’t you go to bed?”
“Monsieur wouldn’t like to remain here alone. Somebody must stay with him.”
“But good heavens, why? You have your day’s work to do tomorrow.”
“In any case I have to get up at five.”
“Then try to get a little sleep now. You can give me a look in when you get up. Allez.”
She rose heavily to her feet.
“As the gentleman wishes. But I will stay very willingly.”
Ashenden smiled and shook his head.
“Bonsoir, ma pauvre mademoiselle,” said the maid.
She went out and Ashenden was left alone. He sat by the bedside and again his eyes met Miss King’s. It was embarrassing to encounter that unshrinking stare.
“Don’t worry yourself, Miss King. You’ve had a slight stroke. I’m sure your speech will come back to you in a minute.”
He felt certain then that he saw in those dark eyes a desperate effort to speak. He could not be mistaken. The mind was shaken by desire, but the paralysed body was incapable of obedience. For her disappointment expressed itself quite plainly, tears came to her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Ashenden took out his handkerchief and dried them.
“Don’t distress yourself, Miss King. Have a little patience and I’m sure you’ll be able to say anything you want.”
He did not know if it was his fancy that he read in her eyes now the despairing thought that she had not the time to wait. Perhaps it was only that he ascribed to her the notions that came to himself. On the dressing-table were the governess’s poor little toilet things, silver-backed embossed brushes and a silver mirror; in a corner stood a shabby black trunk and on the top of the wardrobe a large hatbox in shiny leather. It all looked poor and mean in that trim hotel room, with its suite in highly varnished rosewood. The glare was intolerable.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if I turned out some of the lights?” asked Ashenden.
He put out all the lamps but the one by the bedside and then sat down again. He had a longing to smoke. Once more his eyes were held by those other eyes in which was all that remained alive of that old, old woman. He felt certain that she had something that she wanted urgently to say to him. But what was
