After an interval he said, in a placid voice, “Please kiss me, Nurse,” and, it was evident, believed himself to be lying in the old Dormitory.

As she had been used to bend over the fatherless and motherless children, Sally bent over the fatherless and motherless man, and put her lips to his forehead, murmuring: 

“God bless you!”

“God bless you!” he replied, in the same tone.

After another interval, he opened his eyes in his own character, and said:  “Don’t move me, Sally, because of what I am going to say; I lie quite easily.  I think my time is come, I don’t know how it may appear to you, Sally, but—­”

Insensibility fell upon him for a few minutes; he emerged from it once more.

“—­I don’t know how it may appear to you, Sally, but so it appears to me.”

When he had thus conscientiously finished his favourite sentence, his time came, and he died.

ACT II.

VENDALE MAKES LOVE

The summer and the autumn passed.  Christmas and the New Year were at hand.

As executors honestly bent on performing their duty towards the dead, Vendale and Bintrey had held more than one anxious consultation on the subject of Wilding’s will.  The lawyer had declared, from the first, that it was simply impossible to take any useful action in the matter at all.  The only obvious inquiries to make, in relation to the lost man, had been made already by Wilding himself; with this result, that time and death together had not left a trace of him discoverable.  To advertise for the claimant to the property, it would be necessary to mention particulars—­a course of proceeding which would invite half the impostors in England to present themselves in the character of the true Walter Wilding.  “If we find a chance of tracing the lost man, we will take it.  If we don’t, let us meet for another consultation on the first anniversary of Wilding’s death.”  So Bintrey advised.  And so, with the most earnest desire to fulfil his dead friend’s wishes, Vendale was fain to let the matter rest for the present.

Turning from his interest in the past to his interest in the future, Vendale still found himself confronting a doubtful prospect.  Months on months had passed since his first visit to Soho Square—­and through all that time, the one language in which he had told Marguerite that he loved her was the language of the eyes, assisted, at convenient opportunities, by the language of the hand.

What was the obstacle in his way?  The one immovable obstacle which had been in his way from the first.  No matter how fairly the opportunities looked, Vendale’s efforts to speak with Marguerite alone ended invariably in one and the same result.  Under the most accidental circumstances, in the most innocent manner possible, Obenreizer was always in the way.

With the last days of the old year came an unexpected chance of spending an evening with Marguerite, which Vendale resolved should be a chance of speaking privately to her as well.  A cordial note from Obenreizer invited him, on New Year’s Day, to a little family dinner in Soho Square.  “We shall be only four,” the note said.  “We shall be only two,” Vendale determined, “before the evening is out!”