“Perhaps they were, sir,” said Joan sarcastically: “most women’s nerves would be upset when they learned that the man they were engaged to was coming back to them from the door of the dead.” “Possibly; but I don’t exactly see how the case applies.” Joan rose slowly, and the work upon which she had been employed fell from her hand to the floor. “I do not quite understand you, sir,” she said. “Do you mean to say that you are not engaged to Miss Levinger?” “Engaged to Miss Levinger! Certainly not. Whatever may happen to me if I get out of this, at the present moment I am under no obligations of that sort to any human creature.” “Then I am sorry that I said so much,” answered Joan. “Please forget my silly talk: I have made a mistake. I—think that I hear my aunt coming, and—if you will excuse me, I will go out and get a little air.” “All this is Greek to me,” thought Henry, looking after her. “Surely Ellen cannot have been right! Oh, it is stuff and nonsense, and I will think no more about it.” CHAPTER XI. ELLEN GROWS ALARMED. On the morrow Henry had his first long interview with his mother and Ellen, who again detailed to him those particulars of his illness of which he had no memory, speaking more especially of the events of the afternoon and evening when he was supposed to be dying. To these Ellen added her version of the incident of Emma’s fainting fit, which, although it was more ample, did not differ materially from that given him by Joan. “I have heard about this,” said Henry, when she paused; “and I am sorry that my illness should have pained Miss Levinger so much.” “You have heard about it? Who told you—Dr. Childs?” “No; Joan Haste, who is nursing me.” “Then I can only say that she had no business to do so. It is bad enough that this young woman, to whom we certainly owe no gratitude, should have thrust herself upon us at such a terrible moment; but it is worse that, after acting the spy on poor Emma’s grief, she should have the hardihood to come and tell you that she had done so, and to describe what passed.” “You must really excuse me, Ellen,” her brother answered; “but I for one owe a great deal of gratitude to Joan Haste— indeed, had it not been for her care, I doubt if I should be here to be grateful to-day. Also it does not seem to have struck you that probably she took some interest in my case, and that her motive was not to spy upon you, but to hear what the doctor had to say.” “A great deal of interest—too much, indeed, I think,” said Ellen drily; and then checked herself, for, with a warning glance at her daughter, Lady Graves suddenly changed the conversation. A few minutes later his mother went out of the room to speak to Mrs. Gillingwater, leaving Ellen and Henry alone.