"Mrs. Maule? Dead? An overdose of chloral?" Lingard repeated what the doctor had just said very quietly, but he stammered out the words, and his face had gone an ashen grey colour. They were in the dining-room. Breakfast had only been laid for two. Dr. Mallet was surprised, that is as far as anything of this kind could surprise him. Here was a man used to facing death, and to seeing death dealt out to others--nay, he had doubtless in his time dealt out death to many. And yet now this famous soldier was unmanned--yes, unmanned was the word, by what was, after all, not a very unusual accident. "Yes, it's a terrible thing," the doctor said briefly, "a terrible thing!" Lingard walked over to the sideboard. He poured himself out some brandy, and drank it. "You must forgive me. I had a touch of fever yesterday--jungle fever," he said. "Your news has given me a great shock." "Yes, yes. Naturally." "Will you tell me again? I don't quite understand." He had come back and now stood facing Dr. Mallet. His face was set, expressionless, but he kept on opening and closing his right hand with a nervous movement. "It happened, as these things always do, in the most simple way in the world. I had a similar case six months ago. Poor Mrs. Maule took an overdose of chloral last night. When her husband first became ill in Italy many years ago, she had a very anxious time, and had to supervise, so I understand, very inadequate nurses. Her anxiety, and the strain generally, brought on insomnia, and the doctors there--very wrongly from my point of view--gave her chloral. It is a most insidious drug, as you probably know, General Lingard. She and Mr. Maule have both taken it for years." "Then there is no doubt as to its having been an accident?" Lingard's voice sank in a whisper. "No doubt at all," said the doctor emphatically, "I never saw a woman who, taking all things into consideration, enjoyed life more than did Mrs. Maule. The thought of suicide is out of the question. The maid who saw her the last thing tells me that she hadn't seen her so well or happy--gay was the word the Frenchwoman used--for many months. Before she went to bed, she wrote a letter addressed to Miss Oglander at the Small Farm which she gave orders should be taken over there this morning. It went by hand nearly a couple of hours before the sad truth was discovered." "And then they sent for you at once?" Lingard felt as if he was in an evil dream. He could not bring himself to believe, to face the fact that Athena was dead--gone, for ever, out of his life, out of all their lives. "Yes. Mr. Wantele came and fetched me without losing a moment," said the doctor gravely. "But of course I saw at once that there was nothing to be done. I have, however, sent for a colleague of mine. Mr. Wantele, who, as you can easily imagine, is very much--well, upset, went off to fetch him. I wonder they're not back yet." There was a long silence between the two men.