“I do not think he will. But why did not Will Harcourt himself bring me the child?” Roma inquired, not without some bitterness. “My dear, remember that he had to take the first train west to fly to his mother’s sick bed. He had to hurry on. He really had no alternative, Roma. Yet, I will not deceive you. He told me that under no circumstances should he dare to present himself before Miss Fronde,” said the lawyer. “Ah, heaven! Oh, my dear guardian, what can be this hidden horror that parts my friend from me?” demanded Miss Fronde, with a profound sigh. “It is no secret to me, I think, my dear. It is, of course, his complicity in the matter of that fraudulent marriage.” “No! no! no! no!” indignantly exclaimed the lady. “It is some mental disturbance, superinduced upon his brain fever, and of which Hanson, the fiend, took advantage.” “I fear that it is something more serious than mental disturbance which we have hitherto supposed to be the cause of his strange conduct. Since my interview with him this afternoon I have been under the impression that he is suffering from some deep remorse.” “Remorse!—Will Harcourt!” Roma fairly gasped for breath in her astonishment. “He said that in a few days we should know all—or words to that effect.” Roma sighed deeply. “But to change the subject, my dear, what are you going to do with the child, now that you have so much upon your hands?” inquired the lawyer, to divert the lady’s mind from the sorrowful mystery of William Harcourt. “I shall keep her with me, wherever I may be; take her with me, wherever I may go. She will be no hindrance.” “But when you go to Scotland?” “I shall take her with me to Scotland; and, moreover, in the interests of the orphan, I shall take her to see that awful ancestress of hers, that Highland chieftainess and Covenanter, Mistress Griselda Margaret Arbuthnot, of Arbuthnot Kill, Cuthbert, Caithness. There’s name, title and place for you.” At this moment ’Pollyon Syphax entered the parlor to lay the cloth for dinner, and by so doing stopped the conversation for the time being. It was a tête-à-tête dinner, but as the waiter with the baleful name was in attendance all the time there could be no confidential communication between lawyer and client. Dinner was scarcely over, and the table cleared off, when Dr. Washburn was announced. Roma arose to meet him with outstretched hand. “How good of you to come so promptly, dear doctor,” she said. “Miss Fronde should know that I am always at her orders, and happy to serve her,” replied the worthy, old-fashioned gentleman, lifting the tips of her fingers to his lips and bowing over them. Then he shook hands with Lawyer Merritt, who was an old friend, and sank into the deep armchair Miss Fronde had drawn forward for him. After some informal conversation Roma broached the subject on which she wished to consult him, namely, the organization of a sanitorium for the poor, on the Isle of Storms.