In the evening, having some correspondence to attend to, I retired to the library, a fine old room, filled from floor to ceiling with books, and containing many choice editions, for bibliophilism had been my father's hobby, and he had rendered this portion of the house extremely pleasant and comfortable. A lover of books himself, I, as a literary man, inherited his tastes, and now on my return home frequently spent several hours here daily, reading, and transacting that business which necessarily falls upon the owner of an estate. It was pleasant enough in the daytime, with its windows opening upon the terrace, commanding an extensive view of the Dene, but at night, when the thick crimson curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, and the fire blazed cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned grate, casting its inconstant light upon the stands of shining armour of departed Burgoynes, then it was one of the most snug and cosy rooms in the house. We had dined, and I had been alone a couple of hours busily answering several important letters, when Vera entered. She did not speak, fearing perhaps to interrupt me, but with a loving glance drew a lounge chair towards the fire, and sank into it. I was startled to notice how deathly pale she was, and asked whether she felt ill. "I have a very painful headache, dear," she replied in a tremulous voice. "I think I will go to my room and rest. If I am undisturbed I shall, perhaps, be better." "Very well," I replied; "I will ring for Elise," for my wife's maid had been retained, and was devoted to her mistress. "No, no, do not trouble her; I will go myself. Don't disturb me, dear, and I shall be well to-morrow," she replied, as I rose to touch the bell. "As you wish, dearest," I said, kissing her; "I hope sleep will refresh you." She rose and departed, but before she closed the door, added: "I shall not come down again to-night. You will not feel dull?" "No, dear," I replied. "Here's a heap of writing before me, and while you are getting rid of your headache I can get through it. Good-night." She wished me _bon soir_ in a low, strained voice, and closed the door. Till nearly eleven o'clock I continued writing, but feeling cramped, lit a cigarette, and opening one of the French windows, stepped out into the night. It was dark. There was no sound beyond my own footsteps, but as I left the house the thought of the strange murders in London by some chance recurred to me. Was it a presage of coming evil; of an approaching crisis of my fate? Somehow I felt that it was, and with my thoughts fixed upon the awful subject I wandered away over the gravelled paths, scarcely heeding the direction in which I was walking. Gradually, however, I became more composed; the surrounding peace, the soft air, and the thought of my wife's strong affection, had their soothing effect upon me.