The following day Mr. Bristow was not at luncheon. There were one or two inquiries, but no one seemed to know exactly what had become of him. It was Mrs. McDermott’s usual practice to retire to the library for an hour after luncheon—which room she generally had all to herself at such times—for the ostensible purpose of reading the newspapers, but, it may be, quite as much for the sake of a quiet sleep in the huge leathern chair that stood by the library fire. On going there as usual after luncheon to-day, what was the widow’s surprise to find Mr. Bristow sitting there fast asleep, with the “Times” at his feet where it had dropped from his relaxed fingers. She stepped up to him on tiptoe and looked closely at him. “Rather nice-looking,” she said to herself. “Shall I disturb him, or not?” Her eyes caught sight of some written documents lying out-spread on the table a little distance away. The temptation was too much for her. Still on tiptoe, she crossed to the table in order to examine them. But hardly had she stooped over the table when the same hollow voice that had sounded in her ears the previous night spoke to her again, and froze her to the spot where she was standing. “Fanny McDermott, you must get away from this house,” said the voice. “If you stop here you will be a dead woman in three months!” She was too terrified to look round or even to stir, but her trembling lips did at last falter out the words: “Who are you?” The answer came. “I am your husband, Geoffrey. Be warned in time.” Then there was silence, and in a minute or two the widow ventured to look round. There was no one there except Mr. Bristow, fast asleep. She managed to reach the door without disturbing him, and from thence made the best of her way to her own room. Two hours later Tom was encountered by the Squire. The latter was one broad smile. “She’s going at last,” he said. “Off to-morrow like a shot. Just told me.” “Then, with your permission, I won’t dine with you this evening. I don’t want to see her again.” “But how on earth have you managed it?” asked the Squire. “By means of a little simple ventriloquism—nothing more. But I see her coming this way. I’m off.” And off he went, leaving the Squire staring after him in open-mouthed astonishment. CHAPTER VIII. DIRTY JACK.