“The phial I had when we came here I found was broken yesterday,” said Artress. “I shall have to go up to London to-morrow for more of that fluid, so that there must be a day’s delay in any case. We must be very cautious, for people will wonder at the sudden death of one so hale and strong, and should suspicion arise, it must find no foundation to build upon.” Lady Wynde nodded assent, and opened the door and went out with a weary step. She descended the broad staircase, crossed the great hall, and entered the drawing-room. Sir Harold was seated near the fire, in a thoughtful reverie, but arose at her entrance with a beaming face and a tender smile. “It’s a wild night, Octavia,” he said. “Come forward to the fire my darling. How pale you are! And you are shivering with the cold.” He gently forced her into the easy-chair he had vacated, bent over her with lover-like devotion, patting her head softly with his hand. “You look unhappy, dear,” resumed the baronet, after a pause. “Is there anything you want--a ball, jewels, a trip to the Continent? You know my purse is yours, and I am ready to go where you may wish to lead.” “You are very good!” said Lady Wynde, her black eyes fixed in a gaze upon the fire, and again she shivered. “I--I am not worthy of all your kindness, Harold. Hark! There is the dinner-bell. Thank fortune for the interruption, for I believe I was growing really sentimental!” She forced a laugh as she arose and took her husband’s arm, and was conducted to the dining-room, but there was something in her laughter that jarred upon Sir Harold, although the unpleasant impression it produced upon him was evanescent. At the dinner Lady Wynde was herself again, bright and fascinating, only now and then, in some pause of the conversation, there came again into her eyes that horrified stare which they had worn up stairs, and which testified how her soul shrank from the awful crime she contemplated. After dinner the pair returned to the drawing-room. Sir Harold drew a sofa toward the corner of the hearth and sat down upon it, calling his wife to him. She obeyed, taking a seat beside him. Her face was all brightness at this moment, and Sir Harold forgot his late anxieties about her. “I believe I am the happiest man in the world, Octavia,” he said thoughtfully, caressing one of her jewelled hands he had lifted from her knee, “but my cup of joy lacks a drop or two of sweetness still. You are all the world to me, my wife, and yet I want something more.” “What is it you want, Harold?” “I have been thinking about my children,” said the baronet. “It is over a month since I heard from George, and he does not intend to leave India this year, although I have urged him to sell his commission and come home. The boy has a passion for a military life, and he went out to India against my better judgment. I cannot have George home again this year, but there is Neva near me. I long to see her, Octavia.”