"Lovelock--Lovelock! Why will she always go on like that about Lovelock?" Mr. Oke asked me that evening, suddenly staring me in the face. I merely laughed. "It's only because she has that play of his on the brain," I answered; "and because she thinks you superstitious, and likes to tease you." "I don't understand," sighed Oke. How could he? And if I had tried to make him do so, he would merely have thought I was insulting his wife, and have perhaps kicked me out of the room. So I made no attempt to explain psychological problems to him, and he asked me no more questions until once--But I must first mention a curious incident that happened. The incident was simply this. Returning one afternoon from our usual walk, Mr. Oke suddenly asked the servant whether any one had come. The answer was in the negative; but Oke did not seem satisfied. We had hardly sat down to dinner when he turned to his wife and asked, in a strange voice which I scarcely recognised as his own, who had called that afternoon. "No one," answered Mrs. Oke; "at least to the best of my knowledge." William Oke looked at her fixedly. "No one?" he repeated, in a scrutinising tone; "no one, Alice?" Mrs. Oke shook her head. "No one," she replied. There was a pause. "Who was it, then, that was walking with you near the pond, about five o'clock?" asked Oke slowly. His wife lifted her eyes straight to his and answered contemptuously-- "No one was walking with me near the pond, at five o'clock or any other hour." Mr. Oke turned purple, and made a curious hoarse noise like a man choking. "I--I thought I saw you walking with a man this afternoon, Alice," he brought out with an effort; adding, for the sake of appearances before me, "I thought it might have been the curate come with that report for me." Mrs. Oke smiled. "I can only repeat that no living creature has been near me this afternoon," she said slowly. "If you saw any one with me, it must have been Lovelock, for there certainly was no one else." And she gave a little sigh, like a person trying to reproduce in her mind some delightful but too evanescent impression. I looked at my host; from crimson his face had turned perfectly livid, and he breathed as if some one were squeezing his windpipe. No more was said about the matter. I vaguely felt that a great danger was threatening. To Oke or to Mrs. Oke? I could not tell which; but I was aware of an imperious inner call to avert some dreadful evil, to exert myself, to explain, to interpose. I determined to speak to Oke the following day, for I trusted him to give me a quiet hearing, and I did not trust Mrs. Oke. That woman would slip through my fingers like a snake if I attempted to grasp her elusive character.