“Yes, mad, poor thing, as a March hare. Mad! Drink the word in, and live on it. Mad—mad! This wild scarecrow of a suspicion is nothing but a shadow on the brain, a shadow of distortion and madness brought on by poor Lionel’s death. There are some of us to swear to that, and our words carry more weight and volume than the ravings of a girl. Mrs. Jael must be worth her money. The whole affair will be very simple. Thank Heaven, son Jack is in the country! I can bleed him and doctor him when he returns.” Anne Purcell watched him with a trace of wonder in her eyes. The man was so many-sided, such an actor, such a cynic. “Then—” “She must be treated as one gone mad, yet discreetly and gently, as though the family niceness were to be considered. No idle talking, no news about town. Yet being dangerous, even, perhaps, against herself—mark that, Nan!—she must be put under soft restraint in some quiet corner where she can do no harm.” He spoke so shrewdly, and with such a meaning between the words that Anne Purcell again looked scared. “No whips, Stephen, and all those things. I have heard—” “Tush, my love, am I a fool?” “But—” He opened his arms to her, with an impulse of tenderness and strong appeal. “Now, sweetheart, trust me. We have been too much to each other, you and I. Look at me, Nan; what I am I am because you are what you are. We are on the edge of a cliff. Don’t tell me that I must drag you over.” He played to the woman in her, yet not without real feeling. She rose to him, and for a moment he had her in his arms. “There. You understand, Nan, why I want to live. It is for your sake as well as mine, though I shall not see fifty again. We cannot help ourselves. And I tell you the girl is mad. I have said so to others before it came to this.” My lord put her gently out of his arms, and led her with some majesty back to the window-seat. “You must know, Nan, that this will be de prerogativa regis—that is to say, it will be the chancellor’s affair, and he is an easy man to manage. As to a private inquiry, we can probably slip by it—with Christian discretion. The point is—that the unfortunate subject is confined in custody under the care of her nearest friends or kinsfolk.” Anne Purcell began to understand. “But there may still be danger in it.” “No; trust me; very little. It can be done quietly. There is your place of Thorn.” “Thorn! Why, it is half in ruins, and no one ever goes there.” “Nan, my sweet, are you a fool?” “No, Stephen; but—” “The country air and food, and contact with some simple couple—what more could the poor wench wish for? An old house in the deeps of Sussex, seven miles from a town. Why, it is made for such a case.” She looked at him helplessly, for her selfish worldliness had received a shock that night. “There is no other way?” “None, unless you wish to feel a silk rope round your neck, my dear.”