He was about to rise when he glanced idly at the sheet of paper which the Professor had given him. Mr. Carteret was not fond of poetry. He considered it a branch of knowledge which concerned only women and literary persons. But the words of the translation that he held in his hand he read a first time, then a second time, then a third time. He rose, with a startled sense of being on the brink of discovery, and then Evanston came in. “You are not going,” said Evanston. “No,” said Mr. Carteret, vaguely. “Frank,” he went on, “do you know anything about that sofa pillow?” “What sofa pillow?” asked Evanston. Mr. Carteret took the cushion with the strange embroidery, and held it in the lamplight. “That?” said Evanston--“Edith gave me that.” “When?” asked Mr. Carteret. “It was a Christmas present,” said Evanston--“the Christmas after the failure.” “After you came back?” Evanston nodded. “Do you know where she got it?” asked Mr. Carteret. “I mean the embroidery.” “She worked it,” said Evanston. “But,” said Mr. Carteret, “it’s Persian.” “Very likely she got the design from her uncle,” said Evanston. “She used to be a great deal with him. You know he was Wyeth, the Orientalist. But what is all this about? Why are you interested in this sofa pillow?” Mr. Carteret gazed searchingly at Evanston. “The design,” he said, “that is embroidered is a verse.” Evanston looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Well,” he said, “what of it?” “I want you to ask Edith what it is,” said Mr. Carteret. “Why?” said Evanston. “Don’t ask why. Do it.” “What use can there be in calling up the past?” said Evanston. “It can only be painful to both of us.” “Never mind,” said Mr. Carteret; “do it as a favor to me.” “I think you will have to excuse me, Carty,” said Evanston, somewhat stiffly. Mr. Carteret moved to the wall and rang the bell. Neither man spoke until the servant appeared. “Please say to Mrs. Evanston,” said Mr. Carteret, “that Mr. Evanston and Mr. Carteret wish very much that she would come to the library.” As the man left the room, Evanston came forward. “What does this mean?” he demanded. “My meaning ought to be plain,” said Mr. Carteret. “I intend to have you ask your wife what is on that cushion.” There was something in his tone, in the look in his eyes, which made Evanston’s protest melt away, then transfixed him, then made him whiten and tremble. Presently they heard the rustle of a woman’s dress in the hallway. “Do you understand?” said Mr. Carteret, quickly. “You must ask her. You must force it out of her. If she refuses to tell you, you must choke it out of her. The ghosts have come back!” Then he hurriedly crossed the room to the French window that opened upon the terrace. As he reached the window, Edith stood in the doorway. “Do you want me?” she asked.