So she ordered a chop, and, what is more, ate it, and then went to bed. The next day she kept very quiet till about four o’clock, when the day was beginning to draw in, and then she had a fly brought, paid her bill, and drove to the entrance of Borton village, where she alighted from the vehicle, and dismissed the driver, telling him the house she was going to was close by, and she should prefer to walk the remaining distance. He suggested she should have a boy to carry her bag; but this she declined, saying it was quite light, and she could manage very well. It was not quite dark enough for her purpose yet, and so she lingered about the lanes for half an hour; and when the skeleton trees were faint shadows only, and a few lights began to twinkle in the cottage windows, she took her way slowly to Borton Hall. She glided through the garden, listening to every sound, hiding herself quickly if a bare branch creaked in the wind, or a bird flew across her path. Keeping on the dark side of the house, she came presently to a side door, which she tried softly. Finding it did not yield, she brought a key out of her pocket, and, inserting it cautiously in the lock, she soon found herself inside the house. She knew every corner of it by heart, for her husband had always been pleased to answer her questions, only too glad to see that she took so much interest in their home; so she made her way with little difficulty to the north wing, passing the library on her way, and inhaling the fragrance of her husband’s cigar. How little he guessed that she was so near. Perhaps even his thoughts were with her, as he lay back in his favorite armchair, with his feet on the fender, and pictured how pleasant the room would be later, when Gwendolyn was scorching her face on a low stool at his side. She had become so much a part of his life, so entirely necessary to his happiness, that his cigar had not the right flavor unless she was there to see him smoke it. Somehow her image was more than ever obtrusive to-night, and he had to rise and shake himself to get rid of the painful impression that something was wrong with her. “Humbug!” he said to himself angrily. “I should have heard, of course, if there had been anything wrong. I told Phœbe she was to telegraph directly if Gwen were ill. That’s the only disadvantage of being married--a man doubles his anxieties. But, then, he trebles his pleasures,” continued Colonel Dacre quickly, afraid lest he should be disloyal, even unconsciously, to the woman he loved so much better than himself; “and I wouldn’t be unmarried again even if they offered me in return perfect immunity from care or pain for the rest of my life!” With this, he lighted another cigar, and then sat down and wrote a long letter to his wife, telling her that his uncle’s funeral would take place the next day, at two o’clock, at Milworth Abbey--where Sir Lawrence had died--and that he should leave for Paris that night, to bring her home.