"Beryl? I know nothing of how he felt in that quarter. Beryl! How remarkable! I knew he would come here; if you had told me that you had not seen him, I should hare thought I was--" She nodded. "That is how I felt, Sir John. I had to shake myself hard. It was like the kind of dream one has where you see somebody you know with somebody else's face. Yes, he came here. I had to have a glass of water." "_I_ had brandy," said Sir John gravely. "As a rule I avoid stimulants--brandy produces a distressing palpitation of heart. Perhaps water would have been better for me. That is all, I think, Miss Christina," he picked up his hat. "I had to see you." "Do you think anybody knows or ought to know?" she asked. It was the question that had disturbed her. "They must find out. I have a reputation for being a hard-headed Scotsman. Why the heads of Scotsmen should be harder than any other kinds of heads I do not know. What I mean is, that I cannot risk my credit as a man of truth or my judgment as a man of law or my status as one capable of conducting his own affairs without the assistance of a Commissioner in Lunacy--people must find out. I think they will, the interested people. Beryl you say? Was he--fond of her? How astounding! She is to be married very soon, you know that?" "Should she be told--she may not have an opportunity of discovering for herself, Sir John?" "What can you tell her?" he asked bluntly. She was silent. She had been asking herself that. Having ushered the visitor from the premises, Mrs. Colebrook joined her daughter, for immediately following Sir John had come a grimy little boy with a grimy little package. Mrs. Colebrook had spent an ecstatic five minutes in her kitchen revelling in the fruits of authorship. "I've got something to show you, Christina," she held the something coyly under her apron. "It was my own idea--I didn't expect them so soon--came just after I'd left you and Sir What's-his-name." "What is it, mother?" Mrs. Colebrook drew from its place of concealment a double-leafed card. It was edged with black and heavy black Gothic type was its most conspicuous feature Christina read: In loving memory of Ambrose Sault, Who departed this life on March 17, 19-- at the age of fifty-three Mourned by all who knew him "_We ne'er shall see his gentle smile, Or hear his voice again, Yet in a very little while, We'll meet him once again._" Christina put down the card. "I made that up myself," said Mrs. Colebrook proudly, "all except the poetry, which I copied from poor Aunt Elizabeth's funeral card. I think that verse is beautiful." "I think it is prophetic," said Christina, and added inconsequently, as Mrs. Colebrook thought, "I wonder if Ronnie is coming today?" VIII