Christine had heard their voices.  She looked towards the door; she rose softly and came out to where the two men stood.

Her eyes were anxious, but she was a hundred miles from guessing the truth.  She spoke to Jimmy Challoner.

“She’s asleep, Jimmy.  The nurse tells me that she only fainted.  Oh, I ought not to have left her when I knew she wasn’t well.  I shall never forgive myself; but she’ll be all right now if she has a nice sleep, poor darling.”

Jimmy could not meet her eyes; he bit his lip hard to hide its sudden trembling.

The doctor came to Jimmy’s rescue.

“Has your mother ever had similar attacks to this one, Miss Wyatt?” he asked.

Christine considered.

“She hasn’t been very well lately.  She’s complained of being tired several times, and once she said she had a pain in her side; but——­” She broke off; she looked breathlessly into his face.  Suddenly she caught her breath hard, clutching at Jimmy Challoner’s arm.

“Jimmy,” she said shrilly.

Jimmy put his arm round her; his voice was all broken when he spoke.

“She’s ill, Christine—­very ill.  Oh, my dear——­” He could not go on; he was very boyish still in many ways, and he felt more like breaking down and weeping with her than trying to comfort her and help her through the ordeal she had got to face.

But Christine knew in a minute.  She pushed him away; she stood with hands clasped together, staring before her through the half-closed door with wide, tragic eyes.

“Mother,” she said uncertainly; and then again, “Mother!” And now there was a wild sort of cry in her voice.

“Christine,” said Jimmy huskily.  He caught her hand; he tried to hold her back, but she broke away from him, staggered a few steps, and fell before either of the men could save her.

CHAPTER IX

MOTHERLESS

Sangster was writing letters in his rooms in the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury when Jimmy’s urgent message reached him.  It was brought by one of the hotel servants, who waited at the door, yawning and indifferent, while Sangster read the hastily scrawled lines: 

For God’s sake come at once.  Mrs. Wyatt died suddenly this afternoon, and there is no one to see to anything but me.

Dead!  Sangster could not believe it.  He had admired Mrs. Wyatt tremendously that night when they all went to the theatre together; she had seemed so full of life, so young to have a grown-up daughter like Christine.  Oh, surely there must be some mistake.

“I’ll come at once,” he said.  He crushed Jimmy’s note into his pocket and went back for his hat.  He called a taxi, and took the man from the hotel back with him; he asked him a few questions, but the man was uncommunicative, and apparently not very interested.  Yes, the lady was dead right enough, so he had been told, he admitted.  The gentleman—­Mr. Challoner—­seemed in a great way about it.