“The silence seemed to infuriate my husband—he was, I am afraid, like that”—went on Lady Penterton, oblivious of this by-play, “he raised his stick and cried out some threatening words. The person—it must have been some one come on business, and my husband hated being disturbed in that way, here—made a movement and then I saw something bright hit the wall, and fall with a clatter, I don’t quite know what it was, and then I heard steps of some one going away. My husband remained where he was, but his anger was terrible to see. It frightened me; I leant against the balusters, trembling, and they made a noise. My husband looked up and saw me; I leaned over to speak to him and I knocked against the statuette—I have the mark on my elbow now—I was trembling so that I couldn’t catch it and it fell.” She stopped, breathless, in terrible agitation. Celia went to her, took her hand and held it in silence, and in a minute she went on again more calmly. “I ought to have told somebody at once, of course I ought. If I had known Fairlie was there, I would have called to him. But there seemed to be no one. I listened and could not hear a sound. I came down and called to my husband in a whisper, but he did not answer and I was afraid. Then I don’t know what happened—I don’t remember anything clearly: I found myself at the top of the stairs with that dreadful statuette in my hands. I could not think: I don’t really remember what I did; I was terrified and I hurried to my room. I had lent my maid to Miss Penterton: there was no one there. My mind was making strange patterns and it was difficult to see: I got to bed, I do not remember how. And then I could think, and the worst was I could not, I could not cry; I tried to, but I could not. I suppose I was too terrified. It was such a dreadful end to his life, that he should have died like that whilst he was so angry. It was so dreadful that it should have been through me, his wife. I have tried so hard always, and then this happened. If I had been a bad wife, I should not have minded so much; but I have tried always to be patient. And then you came,” addressing Evelyn, “and told me he had been found. Oh, what a relief that was! But I could not tell you then. I did not care about any one finding out; I did not care about anything, but I could not tell any one; it was too dreadful. Only when you told me it was Fairlie and he had confessed—I saw then he was trying to save me, as he has tried all my married life, and I had to tell.” She fell silent and Humblethorne was just about to speak when a voice was heard outside, a rapid knock shook the door, which was flung open and John Penterton entered. His glance swept the company with surprise and, encountering Humblethorne, took on a vague recognition, but his whole interest was with his mother, who gave a sudden, wild cry, “John! my boy, my boy!” She stretched out her arms to him and he went straight to them.