“Yes, by the morning train. Go to Craven, and tell him the phial he gave you is broken and the contents spilled, and ask him for more of the--the preparation. I will find occasion to administer it. I have worked myself up to the necessary point, and would not scruple at any crime so long as I need not fear discovery. You will be back before dinner,” added Lady Wynde, her brunette complexion turning as gray as that of her companion, “and to-morrow night at this time I shall be a widow!” CHAPTER IV. A DOOR OPENED TO WICKEDNESS. Soon after daybreak, upon the morning following the occurrence of the incidents related in the preceding chapter, Lady Wynde’s gray companion departed from Hawkhurst for Canterbury in a dog-cart which, with its driver, the baronet’s wife had ordered to be always at Artress’ disposal. She took the early train up to London, her business a secret between her mistress and herself. At the usual breakfast hour, eight o’clock, Lady Wynde descended to the breakfast room. Sir Harold was already there, and greeted her with his usual tender smile, although he looked somewhat careworn. Their greetings were scarcely over, and the couple had taken their places at the table, when the butler appeared, bringing in the morning mail bag. Sir Harold produced his key and unlocked it. There were a few newspapers for himself, some packets of silk samples, and a letter from Madame Elise, her dressmaker, for Lady Wynde. There were two letters for the baronet, one quite unimportant, which he tossed aside. The other bore the Indian post-mark. “A letter from George,” said Sir Harold, his eyes brightening. “No, it’s not from George. The address is not in his hand. Who can have written to me in his stead?” He tore open the letter hastily, his countenance falling. His first glance was at the date; his second at the signature. An exclamation broke from his lips as he read aloud the name appended to the letter: “Cooper Graham, Regimental Surgeon.” “What can this mean?” he exclaimed, in sudden agitation. “Can George be ill? Octavia, read the letter to me. The words seem all blurred.” Lady Wynde took the letter, reading it aloud.