For a moment Lady Touchstone stood looking after her niece. Then she put a hand to her head and sank into a chair. She was profoundly worried. If any girl other than Valerie had come to her with such an account, she would have been less troubled. But Valerie was so very clear-headed. True, her love had got away with her, and she had had the very deuce of a fall. But she was up again now, and nothing like that would ever happen again. Her judgment was back in its seat as firm as ever. And when she said that something was wrong with Anthony, that he seemed to hear things, that there was "the queerest light in his eyes," Lady Touchstone knew that it was perfectly true. What was worse, she was entirely satisfied that these things meant brain trouble. For three months after his wife had died, Valerie's own father had been under surveillance for precisely similar symptoms. She remembered them fearfully. And this Major Lyveden was so reminiscent of poor Oliver. His voice, his manner, the very way his hair grew about his temples, reminded her strangely of her dead brother. It was not surprising that she attributed Anthony's condition to a somewhat similar cause. What troubled her most was her conscience. She had set her heart upon the match, and she was now uncertain whether it was not her clear duty to try to call it off. After a little she rose and crossed to a table. Taking a sheet of notepaper, she began to write. _DEAR WILLOUGHBY,_ _I think it probable that within a few days your secretary will make an appointment for you to see a Miss Valerie French. This is my niece. She does not know we are friends. When she tells you her tale, you need make no allowance for hysteria. Believe every word she says. She will not exaggerate. And please remember this. It is most desirable that she should marry the man about whom she will consult you. But it is still more desirable that she should not marry a madman._ _Yours always sincerely, HARRIET TOUCHSTONE._ Then she selected an envelope and addressed it to _Sir Willoughby Sperm, Bart., 55 Upper Brook Street, Mayfair._ * * * * * After a nightmare three days, work at Gramarye was again in full swing. Anthony's succession to Winchester had been accepted without a murmur. If the men displayed any feeling, it was that of relief. When he had told them that nothing whatever would be changed, shown them his Power of Attorney, explained that he was a steward sworn to continue the work till--till his employer should have recovered, they had stared upon the ground like schoolboys and stammeringly requested an assurance that things would go just the same. Reassured, they had nodded approval and exchanged gratulatory glances. Then they had gone about their business.