"No!" answered Mopsy, taking Christabel's hand, with a touch of real feeling. "I had rather be with you. You must feel his loss more than we can--you had known him so much longer." "Yes, it is just five years since he came to Mount Royal. Five years is not much in the lives of some people; but it seems the greater part of my life." "We will go away to-morrow," said Mopsy. "I am sure you will be glad to get rid of us: it will be a relief, I mean. Perhaps at some future time you will let us come again for a little while. We have been so intensely happy here." "Then I shall be happy for you to come again--next summer, if we are here," answered Christabel, kindly, moved by Mopsy's _naïveté_: "one can never tell. Next year seems so far off in the hour of trouble." Dinner was announced, and they all went in, and made believe to dine, in a gloomy silence, broken now and then by dismal attempts at general conversation on the part of the men. Once Mopsy took heart of grace and addressed her brother: "Did you like the hanging, Jack?" she asked, as if it were a play. "No, it was hideous, detestable. I will never put myself in the way of being so tortured again. The guillotine is swifter and more merciful. I saw a man blown from a gun in India--there were bits of him on my boots when I got home--but it was not so bad as the hanging to-day: the limp, helpless, figure, swaying and trembling in the hangman's grip while they put the noose on, the cap dragged roughly over the ghastly face, the monotonous croak of the parson reading on like a machine, while the poor wretch was being made ready for his doom. It was all horrible to the last degree. Why can't we poison our criminals: let them die comfortably, as Socrates died, of a dose of some strong narcotic. The parson might have some chance--sitting by the dying man's bed, in the quiet of his cell." "It would be much nicer," said Mopsy. "Where's Miss Bridgeman?" Leonard asked suddenly, looking round the table, as if only that moment perceiving her absence. "She is not in her room, Sir. Mary thinks she has gone out," answered the butler. "Gone out--after dark. What can have been her motive for going out at such an hour?" asked Leonard of his wife, angrily. "I have no idea. She may have been sent for by some sick person. You know how good she is." "I know what a humbug she is," retorted Leonard. "Daniel, go and find out if any messenger came for Miss Bridgeman--or if she left any message for your mistress." Daniel went out, and came back again in five minutes. No one had seen any messenger--no one had seen Miss Bridgeman go out. "That's always the case here when I want to ascertain a fact," growled Leonard: "no one sees or knows anything. There are twice too many servants for one to be decently served. Well, it doesn't matter much. Miss Bridgeman is old enough to take care of herself--and if she walks off a cliff--it will be her loss and nobody else's."