Why should her husband be afraid of this man?--as it seemed he _was_ afraid, by Mr. Carr's letter. What power had he of injuring Lord Hartledon?--what secret did he possess of his, that might be used against him? Turning it about in her mind, and turning it again, searching her imagination for a solution, Lady Hartledon at length arrived at one, in default of others. She thought this man must know some untoward fact by which the present Lord Hartledon's succession was imperilled. Possibly the late Lord Hartledon had made some covert and degrading marriage; leaving an obscure child who possessed legal rights, and might yet claim them. A romantic, far-fetched idea, you will say; but she could think of no other that was in the least feasible. And she remembered some faint idea having arisen in her mind at the time, that the visit of the man Gorton was in some way connected with trouble, though she did not know with which brother. Val came in and shut the door. He stirred the fire into a blaze, making some remark about the snow, and wondering how Carr would get down to the country again. Maude gave a slight answer, and then there was silence. Each was considering how best to say something to the other. She was the quicker. "Lord Hartledon, what did that man want on Friday?" "What man?" he rejoined, rather wincing--for he knew well enough to what she alluded. "The man--gentleman, or whatever he is--who had you called down to him in the library." "By the way, Maude--yes--you should not dart in when I am engaged with visitors on business." "Well, I thought it was Mr. Carr," she replied, glancing at his heightened colour. "What did he want?" "Only to say a word to me on a matter of business." "It was the same person who upset you so when he called last autumn. You have never been the same man since." "Don't take fancies into your head, Maude." "Fancies! you know quite well there is no fancy about it. That man holds some unpleasant secret of yours, I am certain." "Maude!" "Will you tell it me?" "I have nothing to tell." "Ah, well; I expected you wouldn't speak," she answered, with subdued bitterness; as much as to say, that she made a merit of resigning herself to an injustice she could not help. "You have been keeping things from me a long time." "I have kept nothing from you it would give you pleasure to know. It is not--Maude, pray hear me--it is not always expedient for a man to make known to his wife the jars and rubs he has himself to encounter. A hundred trifles may arise that are best spared to her. That gentleman's business concerned others as well as myself, and I am not at liberty to speak of it." "You refuse, then, to admit me to your confidence?" "In this I do. I am the best judge--and you must allow me to be so--of what ought, and what ought not, to be spoken of to you. You may always rely upon my acting for your best happiness, as far as lies in my power."