Why did his friend conceal from him these most important facts? Why did he pretend ignorance not only of the locality but of his mother's maiden name? Like lightning the remembrance flashed through Bruce's troubled brain that he had only heard of the earlier Lady Dyke as a daughter of the Earl of Tilbury. A suspicion--profoundly horrible, yet convincing--was slowly mastering him, and every second brought further proof not only of its reasonableness, but of its ghastly and inflexible certainty. Again the lawyer's voice reached his ears, dully and thin, as though it penetrated through a wall. "Surely, you feel ill? Let me get you some brandy." "No--no," murmured the barrister. "It is but a momentary faintness. I--I think I will go out into the fresh air. Are you--quite sure--that Mr. Childe bought the property from Lady Helen Montgomery's trustees?" "Quite sure. If you wait even a few moments I will show you the title-deeds." "No, thank you. I will call again. Pray excuse me." Somehow Bruce crossed the quiet square of the Inn, and plunged into the turmoil of the street. Amid the bustle of Holborn he had a curious sensation of safety. The fiend so suddenly installed in his consciousness was less busy here suggesting strange and maddening thoughts. Why--why--why--fifty questions beat incessantly against the barrier of agonized negation he strove to set up, but the noise of traffic made the attack confused. Each incautious bump against a passer-by silenced a demand, each heavy crunch of a 'bus on the gravel-strewed roadway temporarily silenced a doubt. He was so unmanned that he felt almost on the verge of tears. He absolutely dared not attempt to reason out the fearful alternative which had so fiercely thrust itself upon him. At last he became vaguely aware that people were staring at him. Fearful lest some acquaintance should recognize and accost him he hailed a hansom and drove to Victoria Street. All the way the heavy beat of the horse's feet served to distract his thoughts. He forced himself to count the quick paces, and tried hard to accommodate the numerals of two or more syllables to the rapidity of the animal's trot. He failed in this, but in the failure found relief. Nevertheless, though the horse was willing and the driver eager to oblige a fare who gave a "good" address, the time seemed interminable until the cab stopped in front of his door. Once arrived there, he slowly ascended the stairs to his own flat, told Smith to pay the cabman half-a-crown and to admit no one, and threw himself into a chair. At last he was face to face with the troublous demon who possessed him in Lincoln's Inn, struggled with him through the crowd, and travelled with him in the hansom. Phyllis Browne should have her answer sooner than he had expected. The man who murdered Lady Dyke was her own husband. "Oh, heavens!" moaned Bruce, as he swayed restlessly to and fro in his chair, "is it possible?"