The nurse, whose face Lesley scanned with involuntary interest, was gentle and sensible-looking, with kindly eyes and a strong, well-shaped mouth. She looked like a woman to be trusted; and Lesley was therefore not sorry to see her pass into Ethel's room. She had felt very conscious of her own ignorance of nursing during the past few hours, and had not much confidence in the sense or judgment of any woman in the house. Maurice made her sit down, and then stood looking at her for a moment. "You are terribly pale," he said at last. "Will you come downstairs and let me give you something to eat and drink?" "Oh, no, thank you. I want nothing. And Ethel may need me: I cannot bear to be far away." "Have you had nothing all day? It is after five o'clock." She shook her head. "Then you must eat before I talk to you. I have several things to say, and you must have strength to listen. Sit still: I will be back directly." He went away, and Lesley leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She was very weary, but even in her trouble there was some sweetness for her in the knowledge that Maurice was attending to her needs. When he returned with wine and food, she roused herself to accept both, knowing very well that he would not tell her what she wanted to hear until she had done his bidding. The door between bed and dressing room was closed; the house was very quiet, and the light was dim. Maurice spoke at last, in grave, low tones. "I have just come from your father," he said. Lesley started and clasped her hands. "Is he at home again?" "No. They would not let him go. But take heart--we, who know him, will stand by him until he is a free man." "Then you believe--as I believe?" she asked, tremulously. "Would it be possible for me to do otherwise? Hasn't he been my friend for many a year? You have surely no need to ask!" Lesley, looking up at him, stretched out her hand in silence. He took it in both his own and kissed it tenderly. Seeing her grief, and seeing also her sympathy for another woman who grieved, had, for the time being, cured him of his anger against her. He had cherished some bitter feeling towards her for a while; but he forgot it now. "I am as sure," he said, fervently, "that Caspar Brooke could not commit murder as I am sure that _you_ could not. It is an absurdity to think of it." "Then what has made people think of it?" asked Lesley. "How has it come about?" Maurice paused. "There is a mystery somewhere," he said slowly, "which is a little difficult to fathom. Can you bear to hear the details? Your father told me to tell them to you--as gently as I could." "Tell me all--all, please."