She glanced at the door to make sure the servant was not within hearing. "Very great news for me, Mr. Imason. My dear husband's to come home three months sooner than I thought. I got a letter to say so just after Sibylla started." "Oh, really! Capital, Mrs. Mumple!" "It's only a matter of six months now. You can't think what I feel about it--now it's as near as that. I haven't seen him for hard on ten years. What will it be like? I'm full of joy, Mr. Imason; but somehow I'm afraid too--terribly afraid. The thought of it seems to upset me, and yet I can't think of anything else." Grantley rubbed his hand across his brow. Old Mrs. Mumple's talk reached him dimly. He was thinking hard. This sleeping at Mrs. Valentine's sounded an unlikely story. Mrs. Mumple, in her turn, forgot her chop. She leant back in her chair, clasping her fat hands in front of her. "We shall have to pick up the old life," she went on, "after seventeen years! I was thirty-five when he left me, and nearly as slight as Sibylla herself. I'm past fifty now, Mr. Imason, and it's ten years since I saw him; and he's above sixty, and--and they grow old soon in there. It'll be very different, very different. And--and I'm half afraid of it, Mr. Imason. It's terribly hard to pick up a life that's once been broken." The servant brought in Grantley's dinner, and Mrs. Mumple pretended to go on with her chop. "Nurse said I was to tell you Master Frank is sleeping nicely," the servant said to Mrs. Mumple, as he placed a chair for Grantley. That was a strange story about Mrs. Valentine. "We must have patience, and love on," said Mrs. Mumple. "He's had a grievous trial, and so have I. But I don't lose hope. All's ready for him--his socks and his shirts and all. I'm ahead of the time. I've nothing to do but wait. These last months'll seem very long, Mr. Imason." Grantley came to the table. "You're a good woman, Mrs. Mumple," he said. She shook her head mournfully. He looked at the food, pushed it away, and drank another glass of sherry. "Don't think I've no sympathy with you, but--but I'm worried." "Nothing gone wrong in town, I hope, Mr. Imason?" "No." He stood there frowning. He did not believe the story about Mrs. Valentine. He walked quickly to the bell and rang it loudly. "Tell them to saddle Rollo, and bring him round directly." "You're never going out on such a night?" she cried. "I must"; and he added to the surprised servant, "Do as I tell you directly." "Where are you going?" she asked wonderingly. "I'm going to Mrs. Valentine's." "But you've no cause to be anxious about Sibylla, Mr. Imason; and she'll be back to-morrow." Grantley was convinced that she, at least, was innocent of any plot. Simple sincerity spoke on her face, and all her thoughts were for herself and her dearly cherished fearful hopes. "I must see Sibylla on a matter of urgent business to-night," he said. "It'll be hardly safe up on the downs," she expostulated.