“Can you tell me at all what time you went to bed, my lady?” “What time? I don’t know exactly. I did not notice the time. My maid could tell you—oh no, how I am forgetting! I had lent her to Miss Penterton that evening as my daughter had gone up early with a headache and I was anxious about her. She is not strong, you know.” The old lady sighed heavily, tremulously; tears seemed not far away. “So I have been told,” answered Humblethorne with sympathy. He waited a moment and then asked: “You have said your husband was never anxious; had he never any apprehensions? I mean, had he any enemies that you know of?” She shook her head slowly. “No,” she answered hesitatingly; then she added in a low, half-broken voice, as if wrestling with a truth it was useless to conceal, “I’m afraid it is not quite true to say he had no enemies: every very successful man has, and perhaps in rising he made them. But you understand.” “Yes, my lady,” he assented; her pathetic loyalty touched him. He wished to go and leave her to her sorrow, but one thing remained in his mind on which she could perhaps tell him more than any one, and with a strong reluctance he said gently, “In a case of this sort, my lady, it helps to know everything or I wouldn’t mention it. I understood he had differences with his son.” Colour sprang into her white cheeks, and she clutched the arms of the chair; her listless air vanished. “What has that to do with this?” she asked with a sudden fire of which she had seemed incapable. “He had; every one knows that. My son is coming: I have had him sent for. Ask him if you want to know the wretched story. Go!” she added imperiously, “unless you have anything to ask I alone can answer. I am not strong enough for the questions of idle curiosity. Every assistance will be given you.” She sank back in her chair, exhausted and trembling; and Humblethorne, with a slight flush of self-reproach, moved away and left her.