Will went out to see.  Nick, idly watching, saw the native hand him something on a salver which Will took to the lamp by which he had been working.  Dead silence ensued.  From far away there came the haunting cry of a jackal, but near at hand there was no sound.  A great stillness hung upon all things.

To Nick, lying at full length upon the cushions, there presently came the faint sound of paper crackling, and a moment later his friend’s voice, pitched very low, spoke to the waiting servant.  He heard the man softly retire, and again an intense stillness reigned.

He could not see Will from where he lay, and he smoked on placidly for nearly five minutes in the belief that he was either answering some communication or looking over his work.  Then at last, growing impatient of the prolonged silence, he lifted his voice without moving.

“What in the world are you doing, you unsociable beggar?  Can’t you tear yourself away from that beastly work for one night even?  Come in here and entertain me.  You won’t have the chance to-morrow.”

There was no reply.  Only from far away there came again the weird yell of a jackal.  For a few seconds more Nick lay frowning.  Then swiftly and quietly he arose, and stepped to the window.

There he stopped dead as if in sudden irresolution; for Will was sunk upon his knees by the table with his head upon his work and his arms flung out with clenched hands in an attitude of the most utter, the most anguished despair.  He made no sound of any sort; only, as Nick watched, his bowed shoulders heaved once convulsively.

It was only for a moment that Nick stood hesitating.  The next, obeying an impulse that he never stopped to question, he moved straight forward to Will’s side; and then saw—­what he had not at first seen—­a piece of paper crumpled and gripped in one of his hands.

He bent over him and spoke rapidly, but without agitation.  “Hullo, old boy!  What is it!  Bad news, eh?”

Will started and groaned, then sharply turned his face upwards.  It was haggard and drawn and ghastly, but even then its boyishness remained.

He spoke at once, replying to Nick in short, staccato tones.  “I’ve had a message—­just come through.  It’s the kiddie—­our little chap—­he died—­last night.”

Nick heard the news in silence.  After a moment he stooped forward and took the paper out of Will’s hand, thrusting it away without a glance into his own pocket.  Then he took him by the arm and hoisted him up.  “Come inside!” he said briefly.

Will went with him blindly, too stricken to direct his own movements.

And so he presently found himself crouching forward in a chair staring at Nick’s steady hand mixing whiskey and water in a glass at his elbow.  As Nick held it towards him he burst into sudden, wild speech.

“I’ve lost her!” he exclaimed harshly.  “I’ve lost her!  It was only the kiddie that bound us together.  She never cared a half-penny about me.  I always knew I should never hold her unless we had a child.  And now—­and now—­”