What was the thing without the man? It could not exist--it had no
meaning. Where was he now? What had been the end of the battle? He had
saved others, had he saved himself? The most charmed life must be pierced
by the shaft of doom sooner or later; but he was little more than a youth
yet, he had only just begun!
"And the Saadat looks as though he was ready for his grave--but keeps
going, going, going!" The words kept ringing in her ears. Again: "And he
sits there like a ghost all shrivelled up for want of sleep, and his eyes
like a lime-kiln burning. . . . He hasn't had sleep for a fortnight. . . .
He's killing himself for others."
Her own eyes were shining with a dry, hot light, her lips were quivering,
but her hands upon the letter were steady and firm. What could she do?
She went to a table, picked up the papers, and scanned them hurriedly.
Not a word about Egypt. She thought for a moment, then left the
drawing-room. Passing up a flight of stairs to her husband's study, she
knocked and entered. It was empty; but Eglington was in the house, for a
red despatch-box lay open on his table.
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