Beatrice looked at him with quivering lips. “Oh!” she said at last. “You understand her?” “Yes,” he answered absently, looking away into the fire. “I understand her. She will not die.” Both were very silent for a time. Then he spoke. “You were there?” “Yes.” “Tell me about it.” “You have not heard?” “Only the barest outline. Sit down and tell me all.” She did not resent his air of authority. She sat down, and did his bidding. Tom listened in deep silence, weighing every word. He made no comment on the strange story; but a very dark shadow rested upon his sharp featured face. He was a man of keen observation and acuteness of perception, and his mind often leaped to a conclusion that no present premises seemed to justify. Not for a moment would he have given utterance to the question that had suggested itself to his mind; but there it was, repeating itself again and again with persistent iteration. “Can there have been foul play?” He spoke not a word, his face told no tales; but he was musing intently. Where was that half mad fellow, Fitzgerald; who some months ago had seemed on the high-road to drink himself to madness or death? He had not been heard of for some time past; but Tom could not get the question out of his mind. In the deep silence that reigned in the room every sound could be heard distinctly. Beatrice suddenly started, for they were aware that the door of the music-room had been opened, and that Monica was coming towards them. The girl turned pale, and looked almost frightened. Tom stood up as his hostess appeared, setting his face like a flint. The long hour that had seemed like a life-time to the wife—the widow—how could they bring themselves to think of her as such?—had left no outward traces upon Monica. Her face was calm and still, and very pale, but it was not convulsed by grief, and her eyes did not look as though they had shed tears, although there was no hardness in their depths. They shone with something of star-like brightness, at once soft and brilliant. The sweet serenity that had long been the habitual expression of her face seemed intensified rather than changed. “Beatrice,” she said quietly, “where is your brother?” “I don’t know.” “Has he not come in?” “Not that I know of.” “We must inquire. He has been so many hours gone. I am uneasy about him.” “Oh, never mind about him,” said Beatrice, quickly. “He will be all right.” “We must think of him,” she answered. “Tom, it was good of you to come back. What brought you? Did you hear?” “I heard a rumour. Of course I came back. Is there anything I can do?” He spoke abruptly, like a man labouring under some weight of oppression. “I wish you would go and inquire for Lord Haddon. Randolph sent him to the life-boat station, because he believed he would ride over faster than anybody else. I think he should be followed now, if he has not come back. I cannot think what can have detained him so long.” “I will go and make inquiries,” said Tom.