Two out of the six were in manners, appearance and conversation quite of his own class. She did not think the other four came up to the same standard, in fact they did not display much more polish than the men she had met at her friend’s flat. She commented on the fact one day to Darcy, who was immediately ready with an explanation. “They’re regular ‘horsey’ men, bet and go to nearly every race-meeting, little girl. I’ve generally noticed that men who are wrapt up in these pursuits seem to lose their refinement and polish, however well-brought up they may have been, and grow a bit rough and coarse.” She was not quite so satisfied with this explanation as she would have been a few months earlier; she was gaining experience every day. It struck her that these four particular men had never possessed the advantages of good early training which her husband claimed for them. One little fact struck her as rather curious. Whenever any one of these men called, Darcy was sure to take him away into the bedroom, sometimes the bathroom, for a long private talk. If was evident there were things they did not want to discuss before her. In spite of his undoubted affection, his unremitting attention to and consideration for her, this young man had certain secrets from his wife. She felt hurt and annoyed, but said nothing of her feelings to him. She did confide in Alma, and that shrewd young woman was rather angry and suspicious about it. They had now been married over twelve months. During that period Darcy had left her on about half a dozen occasions for a few days at a time. He was a little mysterious about these absences, avoiding any very full details of his destination, and saying very little about what he had been doing when he returned. His wife grew more and more annoyed at his reticence, and Alma Buckley more and more suspicious. There seemed a certain air of mystery about Mr. Darcy, in spite of his prepossessing appearance and frank manners. How well she remembered that day on which she was expecting him back from the last of these somewhat furtive expeditions. Late in the afternoon, a Mr. Granger was shown up to the sitting-room, a tall, good-looking gentlemanly young fellow of about Darcy’s age. Out of the half-dozen men who were their regular visitors, she knew him to be her husband’s most intimate friend of all. Darcy had often declared to her, with an emphasis he seldom used, that Tom Granger was the staunchest pal a man could ever hope to find. This young man, always immaculately dressed like his friend, appeared very agitated when he greeted the young wife. “I have bad news for you, Mrs. Darcy,” he said, speaking in a very low voice. Lettice went as pale as a sheet. What had happened? Had her husband met with a terrible accident—with death itself?