"I know it," replied Mr. Chandos, lifting his eyes to the doctor's. "That is one of the worst features of the case. They are all bad enough." "And it can't be remedied. Unless—but there might be danger attending that. Besides—well, well, we must do the best we can; it would not answer to try experiments on Lady Chandos." Up to the word "besides," Dr. Laken seemed to be forgetting that I was in the room; with the recollection he stopped, making the break. Mr. Chandos rang for refreshments to be served, and I gathered up my work to leave them alone. "I wish you could remain for the night, Dr. Laken." "So do I. But it's of no use wishing it, Mr. Harry. I'll see what I can do towards spending a couple of days here next week." They were the last words I heard. In half an hour the pony carriage was ordered round, and the doctor went away, Mr. Chandos driving. CHAPTER XXII. A NIGHT ALARM. It was the loveliest autumn I had ever remembered. Clear, soft, balmy; the foliage glowing with its ruddy tints, the sky blue and beautiful. There would be a fire in the grate of the oak-parlour, and the window thrown open to the lawn and the scent of the sweet flowers. One afternoon I sat there, a bit of work in my hand, the sprays of jessamine nearly touching me, and the far-off pine-walk looking almost as bright as though no ghost had the reputation of haunting it. Mr. Chandos sat at the table writing. Out of doors or in, we were very much together, and my heart was at rest. I'm afraid I had taken to think that the heaven of hereafter could not be more blissful than this that I seemed to be living in now. His foot was weak again. Not to disable him from getting about; only to deter him from walking more than was absolutely necessary. It was all his own fault; as Mr. Dickenson, the surgeon, told him; he had persisted in using the ankle too much before it was quite strong. Lady Chandos kept her rooms still; report said her bed; and the impression in the house was that she lay in danger. The discovery of the petty pilferer, or pilferers, appeared to be as far-off as ever: but one or two strange things connected with the subject were about to occur. "Will you put these on the hall-table for me, Anne?" I turned to take the letters from him. When he did not let me save his foot in these little things, it made me cross, and I told him so. One of the letters was addressed to his sister. "You have been writing to Madame de Mellissie, Mr. Chandos!" "Yes. We heard from her this morning. She expects to be here in a day or two. Stay! I think I will show my mother what I have said. You shall put only the other one on the table." The news fell on my heart like a shaft of ice. Chandos had become all too dear.