"Oh, well, that’s natural," said Creagh. "Besides, Beadon’s been on the sick-list. His doctor threatens all sorts of complications if he goes on working as he has done lately." "The brunt of to-night’s battle will fall on my son-in-law, who is more than capable of meeting it," said Beadon. "I’m a bit run down, that’s all. Who’s that at the door? Oh, you, my dear." He went forward and greeted Dora with a playful tap on the shoulder. "You’re looking very anxious, Dora; what’s the matter? You mustn’t worry about to-night; Farquharson’s got himself well in hand, as always." "Oh, to-night—I wasn’t thinking about to-night," said Dora nervously. She stood by the study table looking from one man to the other, rapping it impatiently with her fingers. "Richard says he is not coming back again. Do you know where he’s gone? As usual, he didn’t say." "He was hurried at the last," said her father. "He’s got a long journey before him and won’t be back for another three hours, he said. Then he’ll go straight to the House. You are coming, of course; everybody will be there." "Three hours," repeated Dora blankly. "Are you sure he said three hours?—And he won’t be dining at home, you are quite certain that he won’t come back? Oh"—she looked ’round the room—"what about Mr. Blair and Mr. Jefferson? I suppose they’ll be coming here to work in his absence?" Beadon produced a key from his pocket. "No, my orders are to turn you all out and lock the door. Blair and Jefferson are to await Richard at the House. You’re looking very pale and worried, Dora; why not come off with me now, and tell your maid to bring your evening things later? You’re a grass-widow to-night, aren’t you?" He glanced round the room. "Off with you all. There, now, that’s right." He locked the door and pocketed the key. "Don’t wait for me," said Dora nervously; "I’ve got things to do. If you go off now I’ll join you at dinner; I couldn’t possibly get to you before. Good-bye, Lord Creagh. Good-bye, Lord Meavy. Yes, father, you can count upon me. But do go now, I’m really busy; I won’t ring for the men, I’ll go to the door with you myself." The door closed. She stood for a moment silent, fingering two keys in the bosom of her dress, looking round despairingly, starting at every sound and peering into the corners like a hunted animal at bay. Sure at last of being alone, she slipped into her boudoir, and, going to the writing-table, took out a telegraph form and proceeded to write hurriedly.