The doctor was impressed by this generosity; so was Bram, but in a different way. What was the reason of this sudden consideration, this unexpected liberality to the poor relations whom he detested, and to whom he imputed the death of his son? “What’s the matter with them?” went on Mr. Cornthwaite in the same hard, perfunctory, if not slightly suspicious tone. “Pneumonia in Mr. Biron’s case, brought on by exposure to wet and cold, no doubt. He has just had a severe shivering fit, and his pulse is up to a hundred and four. We must do the best we can, but he’s a bad subject for pneumonia, very.” “And the daughter?” “Acute congestion of the brain. She’s delirious.” “Ah!” Mr. Cornthwaite seemed satisfied now that he had the doctor’s assurance that the illness was genuine. He made no more inquiries, but he followed the medical man into the hall and to the front door. The doctor perceived that it was locked and bolted at the top and bottom. “All right,” said he, “I’ll go through the other way.” And he made his way to the kitchen, followed by Mr. Cornthwaite and Bram. As he opened the door which led into the kitchen, the wind blew strongly in his face from the outer door, which was wide open. The rain was sweeping in, and the tablecloth was blown off into his face as he entered. At the same moment Joan, who had gone into the back kitchen to prepare something the doctor had ordered, made her appearance at the door between the two rooms. “I shouldn’t leave this door open,” said the doctor as he crossed the room to shut it. “The wind blows through the whole house.” Joan stared. “Ah didn’t leave it open, sir,” said she. “Ah’ve only just coom through here, and it were shut then. Some one’s been and opened it.” Bram gave a glance round the room, and then opened the door through which he and the others had just come to examine the hall. “What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Cornthwaite sharply. He had bidden the doctor a hasty good-bye, afraid of the condolences which he saw were on the tip of his tongue. Bram, with a candle in his hand, was peering into the dark corners. “I was just thinking, sir, that perhaps Meg Tyzack had got in while we were talking in the drawing-room,” said he. “Mr. Biron made me bolt the doors to keep her from getting in. He seemed to be afraid she would follow him into the house.” The words were hardly uttered, when from the floor above there came a piercing scream, a woman’s scream. “Claire!” shouted Bram, springing on the stairs. But before he could mount half a dozen steps a wild figure came out of Claire’s room, and rushed to the head of the staircase in answer to his call. But it was not Claire. It was, as Bram had feared, Meg Tyzack, recognizable only by her deep voice, by her loud, hoarse laugh, for the figure itself looked scarcely human.