‘There is some little time yet. If he does not answer, I will go to him where he is, and make him come. I will so speak to him that he shall not dare do anything but come. I will die, but I will force him to make what miserable reparation lies with him. He is poor now,’ she added, with a peculiar smile, such as Michael had never seen upon her face before. ‘Before very long, he will be a pauper. I know it. He will be dependent upon me. I have understood that for some little time past. But if he does not come home and marry Ada, I will let him die of hunger in the street, rather than give him a penny.’ She did not speak noisily nor vehemently, but Michael saw that she was quite prepared to carry out her words. ‘Then you have a strong hold upon him,’ he said. ‘Now, what we have to do, is to telegraph to Gilbert. We can, of course, have an answer from him to-morrow. By the way, it cannot go before to-morrow. Then we shall know better what to do. If you will give me pen and paper, we can perhaps agree together what to say.’ Eleanor brought the writing things, and after various false attempts, they decided to send:— ‘Send O. A. here instantly, on a matter of life and death. Not an hour to be lost. If he is not near, send information how he is soonest to be found.’ ‘I will see that it goes first thing in the morning,’ said he. ‘And you say Ada is coming to you?’ ‘Yes; at nine.’ ‘That is well. She could not be in a better place. Do not leave your house yourself. I will see Mr. Dixon. There is no necessity for you to trouble. Try to make her talk to you about it; do you understand? It will be better for her than anything. It may save her life and her reason.’ ‘Yes, I will do so. Do you think I should send for her here to-night?’ ‘No, I do not. It would excite the curiosity and suspicion of your own servants, and the tale would be over the whole village long before morning. I shall be obliged to tell them over the way, though,’ he added, ‘because it might be just possible that Gilbert’s reply might make it necessary for some one to go up to town, to settle things more expeditiously. I might go up alone; or if you went, I would go with you—if I may.’ ‘If you may!’ she repeated, in a faltering voice, ‘What could _I_ have done without you!’ ‘Another time,’ said he, looking straight into her eyes, ‘I will tell you something. We have other things to think about now. Be as tranquil as you can, and remember that you could have done nothing but what you have done.’ He wrung her hand without saying anything more, and left her.