The crunch of the brougham brought his ceaseless march over the carpet to an end.  He went out into the hall and looked into the doctor’s face—­he had forgotten that this old fellow knew nothing of his special reason for deadly fear.  Then he turned back into his study.  The wild south wind brought wet drift-leaves whirling against the panes.  It was here that he had stood looking out into the dark, when Fiorsen came down to ask for Gyp a year ago.  Why had he not bundled the fellow out neck and crop, and taken her away?—­India, Japan—­anywhere would have done!  She had not loved that fiddler, never really loved him.  Monstrous—­monstrous!  The full bitterness of having missed right action swept over Winton, and he positively groaned aloud.  He moved from the window and went over to the bookcase; there in one row were the few books he ever read, and he took one out.  “Life of General Lee.”  He put it back and took another, a novel of Whyte Melville’s:  “Good for Nothing.”  Sad book—­sad ending!  The book dropped from his hand and fell with a flump on the floor.  In a sort of icy discovery, he had seen his life as it would be if for a second time he had to bear such loss.  She must not—­could not die!  If she did—­then, for him—!  In old times they buried a man with his horse and his dog, as if at the end of a good run.  There was always that!  The extremity of this thought brought relief.  He sat down, and, for a long time, stayed staring into the fire in a sort of coma.  Then his feverish fears began again.  Why the devil didn’t they come and tell him something, anything—­rather than this silence, this deadly solitude and waiting?  What was that?  The front door shutting.  Wheels?  Had that hell-hound of an old doctor sneaked off?  He started up.  There at the door was Markey, holding in his hand some cards.  Winton scanned them.

“Lady Summerhay; Mr. Bryan Summerhay.  I said, ‘Not at home,’ sir.”

Winton nodded.

“Well?”

“Nothing at present.  You have had no lunch, sir.”

“What time is it?”

“Four o’clock.”

“Bring in my fur coat and the port, and make the fire up.  I want any news there is.”

Markey nodded.

Odd to sit in a fur coat before a fire, and the day not cold!  They said you lived on after death.  He had never been able to feel that she was living on.  She lived in Gyp.  And now if Gyp—!  Death—­your own—­no great matter!  But—­for her!  The wind was dropping with the darkness.  He got up and drew the curtains.

It was seven o’clock when the doctor came down into the hall, and stood rubbing his freshly washed hands before opening the study door.  Winton was still sitting before the fire, motionless, shrunk into his fur coat.  He raised himself a little and looked round dully.

The doctor’s face puckered, his eyelids drooped half-way across his bulging eyes; it was his way of smiling.  “Nicely,” he said; “nicely—­a girl.  No complications.”