Geoffrey breathed more freely. “Where is her ladyship?” he asked. “In Effie’s room?” “No, sir,” answered the man, “her ladyship has gone to a ball. She left this note for you in case you should come in.” He took the note from the hall table and opened it. “DEAR GEOFFREY,” it ran, “Effie is so much better that I have made up my mind to go to the duchess’s ball after all. She would be so disappointed if I did not come, and my dress is quite _lovely_. Had your mysterious business anything to do with _Bryngelly_?—Yours, HONORIA.” “She would go on to a ball from her mother’s funeral,” said Geoffrey to himself, as he walked up to Effie’s room; “well, it is her nature and there’s an end of it.” He knocked at the door of Effie’s room. There was no answer, so he walked in. The room was lit but empty—no, not quite! On the floor, clothed only in her white night-shirt, lay his little daughter, to all appearance dead. With something like an oath he sprang to her and lifted her. The face was pale and the small hands were cold, but the breast was still hot and fevered, and the heart beat. A glance showed him what had happened. The child being left alone, and feeling thirsty, had got out of bed and gone to the water bottle—there was the tumbler on the floor. Then weakness had overcome her and she had fainted—fainted upon the cold floor with the inflammation still on her. At that moment Anne entered the room sweetly murmuring, “Ça va bien, chérie?” “Help me to put the child into bed,” said Geoffrey sternly. “Now ring the bell—ring it again. “And now, woman—go. Leave this house at once, this very night. Do you hear me? No, don’t stop to argue. Look here! If that child dies I will prosecute you for manslaughter; yes, I saw you in the street,” and he took a step towards her. Then Anne fled, and her face was seen no more in Bolton Street or indeed in this country. “James,” said Geoffrey to the servant, “send the cook up here—she is a sensible woman; and do you take a hansom and drive to the doctor, and tell him to come here at once, and if you cannot find him go for another doctor. Then go to the Nurses’ Home, near St. James’ Station, and get a trained nurse—tell them one must be had from somewhere instantly.” “Yes, sir. And shall I call for her ladyship at the duchess’s, sir?” “No,” he answered, frowning heavily, “do not disturb her ladyship. Go now.” “That settles it,” said Geoffrey, as the man went. “Whatever happens, Honoria and I must part. I have done with her.” He had indeed, though not in the way he meant. It would have been well for Honoria if her husband’s contempt had not prevented him from summoning her from her pleasure. The cook came up, and between them they brought the child back to life. She opened her eyes and smiled. “Is that you, daddy,” she whispered, “or do I dreams?” “Yes, dear, it is I.” “Where has you been, daddy—to see Auntie Beatrice?” “Yes, love,” he said, with a gasp.