“Oh, Herbert, I am so glad you have come!” she exclaimed, with a sigh that was almost a sob. “The Raffaelle--where’s the key? Go quickly; you may be able to save it yet.” Her brother could not take in her meaning at first, but suddenly comprehension dawned upon him. “Good heavens, yes! The Duke of Downshire’s picture! He will never forgive me if that gets burnt.” “Where is the key?” repeated the girl, excitedly. “I have it here in my pocket. But it is a patent lock; the firemen won’t be able to manipulate it. I shall have to do it myself;” and tossing his silk scarf to his sister, he dashed down the stairs. Celia drew Lady Marjorie into the library, and gave her a chair by the window overlooking the studio. Her face was pale and anxious; she looked as if she had received a painful shock. “I have persuaded Miss Wilton to go back to bed,” she said, sinking on to the couch with a shiver. “She has such a bad cold. Isn’t this dreadful, Lady Marjorie? I shall never feel safe here again; and I shall be so anxious for Herbert when I am away. It is incendiarism, you know.” Her friend gave an ejaculation of horror. “Are you sure?” she asked in astonishment. “How do you know that it was not accident?” “The firemen found some ignited boards soaked in oil against the studio walls,” Celia replied. “One of them had ‘Mendel and Co.’ painted on the back. It’s the factory people. They have been threatening us for some time, as you are aware; but we never dreamt of this. If there had been the slightest breeze we should have been burnt right out.” “The wretches!” exclaimed Lady Marjorie. “I hope they will get the imprisonment they deserve. We must be thankful, however, that the danger was not greater; it might have been worse.” She glanced through the window, and remarked with satisfaction that, although the engines were still at work, the smoke had dissolved, and the flames were quenched. Suddenly the measured tread of heavy feet on the lower staircase made her turn quickly towards the door. Tramp, tramp, they came, and an icy fear gripped her heart as she listened. Expecting she knew not what, she nervously made her way to the landing, and looked over the balustrade. A small procession of firemen and servants were coming up the stairs. What did they want up there, she wondered vaguely. They seemed to be carrying something ... a motionless form with arms hanging limply down. Some one had evidently been injured--perhaps worse. With a shudder she looked away, and for a moment everything swam before her eyes; until a smothered sob from Celia recalled her to herself. The firemen came nearer, and turning into an adjacent room, deposited their burden on the bed. As though fascinated, Lady Marjorie followed. The servants made way for her, although one of them would fain have spared her the painful sight. With a low cry of grief and terror, she advanced towards the bed, for on it lay the apparently lifeless figure of the man she loved!