"Oh, it's all right, my dear," the old man quavered on. "Quite all right, I corrected it myself. I can do a neat bit of work still, even if my hands do tremble a little. I cut out the names, reversed them, and put them back in their proper places, and I'd defy any but an expert to see that they'd been tampered with. I'm sure that none of the people who've seen the book since suspected the change." "Who has seen the book?" she asked, frozen with horror. "After I corrected the register?" "Yes! Yes! Who?" "Dear me--let me see! That was this morning. Now who was there? Ah!--I remember. A strange lady in black, very beautiful, and Mr. Kent-Lauriston." Miss Fitzgerald shuddered. "Dear, dear!" cried the parson. "You're cold--the draught from the window--let me get you a wrap." "No, no, I'm quite warm, thank you. You're sure that no one else saw the register?" "No one--except Mr. Stanley." "You must excuse me, Mr. Lambert," she said. "I'm not feeling very well." "You are faint? Is there nothing I can do for you?" "Nothing more, thank you," and she swept past him across the room, to where Lady Isabelle was seated on a sofa. "Nothing more," murmured the little man, after she had left him; "but I hadn't begun to do anything; and she seemed quite faint. Dear, dear, she looks strong, but to be so easily upset, I fear something must be wrong--my daughter was never like that," and, shaking his head, he went to join the Dowager, who had a _penchant_ for the clergy. "You've heard nothing from your husband?" asked Miss Fitzgerald of Lady Isabelle, as she seated herself beside her. "Nothing beyond a telegram telling me of his safe arrival in London." "But surely his uncle was _in extremis_. He cannot live long." "I do not know," she replied, "but it's very awkward. Oh, why won't you let me tell Mr. Stanley the truth?" "Sh! He's coming," murmured Miss Fitzgerald, and, indeed, the Secretary was advancing deliberately towards them; a thing suggestive in itself, considering how he had striven to avoid them all day long. "Miss Fitzgerald," he said very quietly, as he stood before them, "will you permit me to ask you a question?" "If it's a proper question to ask, Mr. Stanley." "It is eminently proper and fitting," he replied, coldly. "Would you rather that I went?" suggested Lady Isabelle, half rising. "I would rather you stayed." "Don't be so dreadfully mysterious, Jimsy!" cried Miss Fitzgerald, with a forced laugh that grated on the ears of both her hearers. "Out with your dreadful question. What is it?" "It is this," he replied. "Are you Jack Kingsland's wife?"