"May I speak to you a moment, sir?"

Christine moved away.

"If you will ask the young lady to wait, sir," the man said again with a sort of agitation.

A little flame of apprehension swept across Jimmy's face. He spoke to Christine.

"Wait for me a moment--just a moment." He turned again to the man.

"Well--well, what is it?"

The man lowered his voice.

"The lady, sir--Mrs. Wyatt; she was taken very ill an hour ago. The doctor is with her now. I was told to tell you as soon as you came in, so that you could warn the young lady, sir."

Christine had come forward.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked. She looked from Jimmy to the porter wonderingly. Jimmy took her hand.

"Your mother isn't very well, dear." The little word slipped out unconsciously. "There is a doctor with her now. . . . No, don't be worried. I dare say it's nothing. I'll come up with you and see."

Christine fled up the staircase. She was already in her mother's room when Jimmy overtook her. Through the half-closed door he could see the doctor and a woman in nurse's dress. His heart began to race.

Supposing Mrs. Wyatt were really ill; supposing---- The doctor came out to him as he stood on the landing.

"Are you--are you a relative of Mrs. Wyatt's?" he asked.

Jimmy hesitated.

"I--I am engaged to Miss Wyatt," he said. "I hope--I hope there is nothing serious the matter?"

The doctor glanced back over his shoulder. Jimmy's eyes instinctively turned in the same direction; he could see Christine on her knees beside the bed in the darkened room.

"Mrs. Wyatt is dying, I regret to say," the doctor said; he spoke in a low voice, so that his words should not reach Christine. "It's only a question of hours at most. I've done all I can, but nothing can save her. It's heart trouble, you know; she must have been suffering with it for years."

Jimmy Challoner stood staring at him, white-faced--stunned.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" he said at last. He was terribly shocked; he could not believe it. He looked again to where Christine knelt by the bed.

"Does she--Christine--who is to tell her?" he asked incoherently.

The doctor shook his head.

"I should suggest that you----" he began.

Jimmy recoiled. "I! Oh, I couldn't. . . . I----" He broke off helplessly. He was thinking of the old days down at Upton House; the great kindness that had always been shown to him by Christine's mother.

There was a choking feeling in his throat.

"I think you are the one to tell her," said the doctor again, rather stiffly.

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 G.o.d'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.

Sangster was terribly shocked. He had quite forgotten the manner of his parting with Jimmy; he was only too willing and anxious to help him in any way possible. When they reached the hotel he was shown into the Wyatt's private sitting-room. Jimmy was there at the telephone; he hung up the receiver as Sangster entered the room; he turned a white, worried face.

"Awful thing, isn't it?" he said. Even his voice sounded changed; it had lost its usual light-heartedness.

"It's given me a most awful shock," he said again. "She was as well as anything last night; n.o.body had any idea----" He broke off with a choke in his voice. "Poor little Christine," he said after a moment.