One of her hands was nervously caressing the rough sleeve of the coat as it hung from her shoulder.
One--two--three-- Billy gave a sharp cry and ran into the hall.
Yes, it was twelve o'clock.

And now, always, all the rest of the dreary, useless hours that that clock would tick away through an endless existence, she would have to live--without Bertram.

If only she could see him once more! But she could not.

He was dead.

He must be dead, now.
Here it was twelve o'clock, and-- There came a quick step, the click of a key in the lock, then the door swung back and Bertram, big, strong, and merry-eyed, stood before her.
"Well, well, hullo," he called jovially.