"She comes home to-morrow." "Bertha Cross--?
Ah, yes, your friend--" The name sounded to Warburton as if from a remote past.

He repeated it several times to himself.
They stood with face turned toward the lurid south.

The air was very still.

From away down the river sounded the bells of Lambeth Church, their volleying clang softened by distance to a monotonous refrain, drearily at one with the sadness of the falling night.

Warburton heard them, yet heard them not; all external sounds blended with that within him, which was the furious beating of his heart.