“He took down my gates, but I think I have given him something to think about that will spoil his rest for many a night, before he has thought it out,” mused Mr. Crowther. * * * * * It was after the usual luncheon hour before Martin Disney went back to the Angler’s Nest. He had been for a long walk by the river, trying to walk down the devil that raged within him, before he could trust himself to go home. His wife was alone in the drawing-room, sitting by the fire with her baby in her lap; but this time he did not pause on the threshold to contemplate that domestic picture. There was no tenderness in the eyes which looked at his wife--only a stern determination. Every feature in the familiar face looked strange and rigid, as in the face of an accuser and judge. “Send the child away, Isola. I want some serious talk with you.” She stretched out a faltering hand to the bell, looking at him, pale and scared, but saying no word. She gave the baby to his nurse presently in the same pallid dumbness, never taking her eyes from her husband’s face. “Martin,” she gasped at last, frozen by his angry gaze, “is there anything wrong?” “Yes, there is something horribly wrong--something that means destruction. What were you doing in London the winter before last, while I was away? What was the motive of your secret departure--your stealthy return? What were you doing on the last day of the year? Where had you been? With whom?” She looked at him breathless with horror; whether at the accusation implied in his words, or at his withering manner, it would have been difficult for the looker-on to decide. His manner was terrible enough to have scared any woman, as he stood before her, waiting for her answer. “Where had you been--with whom?” he repeated, while her lips moved mutely, quivering as in abject fear. “Great God! why can’t you answer? Why do you look such a miserable, degraded creature--self-convicted--not able to speak one word in your own defence?” “On the last day of the year?” she faltered, with those tremulous lips. “On the last day of the year before last--the winter I spent in Burmah. What were you doing--where were you--where had you been? Is it so difficult to remember?” “No, no; of course not,” she cried, with a half-hysterical laugh. “You frighten me out of my senses, Martin. I don’t know what you are aiming at. I was coming home from London on that day--of course--the 31st of Jan--no, December. Coming home from Hans Place, where I had been spending a few days with Gwendolen.” “You never told me of that visit to Gwendolen.” “Oh yes; I’m sure I told you all about it in one of my letters. Perhaps you did not get that letter--I remember you never noticed it in yours. Martin, for God’s sake, don’t look at me like that!”