"Anything that Mr. Varick has arranged with you will suit me," she said quickly. "As a matter of fact, I think he would like you to leave by the train I shall be going by myself." As the man turned away she looked down at Varick's letter. On the envelope was written in his good, clear handwriting: "The Hon. Blanche Farrow, Wyndfell Hall." But no premonition of its contents reached her still weary, excited brain. Written on a large plain sheet of paper, the letter ran: "My dear Blanche,--I fear I am going to give you a shock--for, by the time this reaches you, there will have been another accident--one very similar to that which befell poor little Bubbles. But this time there will be no clever, skilful Panton to bring the drowned to life. "I suggest that you begin to feel uneasy about a quarter past eight. I leave to your good sense the details of the sad discovery. I have but one request to make to you, kindest and truest of friends; that is, that you remember what I asked you to do with reference to Panton's appointment to-morrow morning. If you can get a telegram or telephone message through to Gifford to-night, I think that appointment will be postponed indefinitely. You will perhaps think me a sentimental fool for wishing to keep Panton's good opinion, but such is my wish. "I am distressed at the thought of the trouble and worry to which you must inevitably be exposed to-night. On the other hand, much more trouble and worry in the future will thus have been saved, even to you. "Yours ever, "Lionel Varick. "I trust to your friendship to destroy this letter as soon as read." Blanche read the letter once again, right through, then she held out the big sheet of paper, and dropped it into the heart of the fire. For the second time that day she burst into tears, shaken to the depths by the extraordinarily complicated feelings which filled her heart and mind, feelings of horror and of pain--and yet of intense, immeasurable relief! Then she pulled herself together, and prepared to act, for the second time that day, her part in a tragi-comedy in which where there had been two characters there was now but one. CHAPTER XXIV Dr. Panton's appointment at the Home Office had been for half-past ten, and, though there happened to be on this early January day an old-fashioned, black London fog, he had been punctual to the minute. It was now eight minutes to eleven, and he began to feel rather cross and impatient. There was nothing to do in the big, ugly, stately room into which he had been shown. There was a bookcase, but it was locked, and he had not brought a paper with him--but that, perhaps, was a good thing, for the one electric globe gave a very bad light. He wondered what manner of man Dr. Spiller might be--in any case a remarkable and distinguished person, one of the great authorities on poisons in Europe.