All the time I was changing my clothes I could hear the discussion proceeding, although the words themselves were inaudible. Then came the clumping of heavy boots on the staircase. I looked out of my window, which commanded a view of the carriage sweep, and saw John Thaneford's disreputable old dog-cart waiting before the front door. Presently Thaneford himself appeared, carrying a couple of handbags; he threw the luggage in the cart, mounted, and drove away. On my own way down I had to go by the room occupied by the elder Thaneford. Quite involuntarily I glanced through the half-opened door; a curious feeling possessed me that the sick man was being dealt with unfairly, that he needed the protection which a guest has a right to expect from his host. Fielding Thaneford lay, immense and quiescent, in the old-fashioned, canopied bed. He was not asleep, for his eyes were open and rolling restlessly, while the infantile pink and white of his complexion had darkened to a dull crimson; it was plain that he was uneasy, suffering even. And then I realized the source of his discomfort. Eunice Trevor sat in a highbacked chair at the foot of the bedstead, gazing intently at the helpless man. I used to think that the metaphorical, "If looks could kill!" was mere rhetoric, but now I knew that there may be a deadliness in pure hatred which needs neither spoken word nor overt act for its vehicle of expression. The Medusa-head again, an incarnation of implacable malignity; no wonder that Fielding Thaneford's big, babyish cheeks were beaded with sweat and that his breath came and went in short gasps. One thought involuntarily of the mediæval sorceress sticking her lethal pins into the waxen image of her victim. Only that in this instance the counterfeit presentment was not necessary; the man himself lay bound hand and foot, delivered to the tormentors as they that go down quick into hell. Unable to move or speak he must remain in his physical straitjacket while this tigerish woman was doing him to death, at her leisure, with the invisible knife-thrusts of a great and consuming hatred It was unbearable, and I entered the room with the merest apology for a knock; instantly the eyes of the basilisk were veiled. "I was looking for Mr. Thaneford's nurse," I began awkwardly. "Miss Davenport is off duty from two until five o'clock," answered Miss Trevor with entire composure. "I told Betty that I would take the relief on alternate days. Here is Miss Davenport now." I turned to greet the pleasant-faced, capable looking young woman who entered, and Miss Trevor glided away without another word. I made the usual inquiries about the patient's condition. "Not quite so well, perhaps," I suggested. "He does seem a little flushed and restless," answered the nurse, producing her clinical thermometer. "I don't understand it, for he was decidedly better this morning."