At two o'clock Richard De Jarnette came. He found her in the library. With that strange restlessness and presentiment of coming ill which possessed her, she was looking over papers in her desk and putting things in place. A waste basket beside her was half filled with old letters. From the drawer just emptied she had taken a revolver of peculiar workmanship. It was one belonging to her husband, which he had left in the desk. She was taking it up with the intention of carrying it to his room, but when the servant announced Mr. De Jarnette, she laid it hastily on the top of the desk and put the drawer back. When she rose to meet her brother-in-law she took hold of the desk to steady herself, for she had a feeling that this visit was upon no trifling errand. As she did so her hand touched the revolver, and she drew back. "It is Victor's," she said, "I was putting it away." He looked at the revolver, taking in as people do sometimes in the crises of their lives the details of its curious workmanship. He wasted no time in formalities. He had come to ask her about Victor. Did she know anything about him--where he was? No. She did not know he had gone away. She was controlling herself by so strong an effect that her voice sounded hard. Where was he? Had any message come from him? Richard De Jarnette had not had much experience in dealing with women. He took from his pocket a telegram and handed it to her. It was dated New York. She held it with unsteady hand and read: "Wire me two thousand dollars--Paris--Credit Lyonnais. Sail to-night. Victor De Jarnette." She grew white as the dead. "You knew nothing of this?" he asked. "Nothing." "And can you give me no idea of what it means?" His voice was tense, so much so that it had the unfortunate effect of making his words sound severe. Margaret stared at the paper, feeling the earth sway beneath her feet. "No--unless--perhaps I ought to tell you that--we quarreled last night--a bitter quarrel--" "Quarreled? About what?" He spoke sharply. She lifted her head at that and looked full at him. "About something that concerns only ourselves, I think." "I beg your pardon. You are quite right. I did not mean to intrude, but only to find out if I could the meaning of this incomprehensible thing. I beg you to believe that I would like to serve you." "Of course this will be known," she said, hesitatingly. "If--if it could be kept out of the papers I should be glad. It would only avert publicity for a little while--but--I might be stronger then to bear it." "I will see to it at once. The papers will say, if you desire, that he has been called away on urgent business." "Oh, yes, if you will be so good. I think--I hope--and still I do not know that it can ever be arranged." As he rose to go he said after an awkward silence, "I seem unfortunate in my questions, but I hope you will not misunderstand me. Has he left you money?"