Queenie had preserved a gallant demeanor in Granite Lodge, but she slackened her footsteps and drew her breath a little unevenly when she came in sight of Mr. Calcott's house, a large grey stone building with dark outside shutters, and a high portico over the gate resembling the entrance to a tomb. Queenie thought of the thin austere-looking man who eyed their ranks so gloomily with a sudden failure of courage and an ominous beating in the regions of the heart; but the bell was already ringing in strange hollow fashion, and the next moment she was confronted by a grey-haired butler. "Does Mr. Calcott live here? could I see him for a moment on business?" It must be averred that Queenie's voice was somewhat faint at this juncture; the sombre hall, the morose face of the man, a little daunted her. "People on business always call at the office down the town. Mr. Calcott is not very well, but Mr. Smiler or Mr. Runciman could see you," returned the man civilly enough, but with an evident desire to close the door in her appealing face. "It is not exactly business, but my errand is very pressing. If he is not very ill I must see him," pleaded Queenie with a desperation evoked by emergency. "My master does not see visitors when he is suffering from gout," persisted the man, with a pointed stress on the word visitors. "I will take your card if you like, but I fear it will be little use." "I have no card," faltered Queenie; "I do not want to send my name, though he knows it well. Please tell him a young lady wishes to speak to him on a matter of great importance; tell him how grateful I shall be if he will grant me a five minutes' interview." The man hesitated; but Queenie's face and voice evidently pre-possessed him in her favour; for after another glance he closed the door and ushered her into a small waiting-room leading out of the hall, with a cold, fireless grate, and a horse-hair sofa and chairs placed stiffly against the wall. There was a picture of Strafford led out to execution over the mantel-piece, which somehow attracted Queenie oddly. "Even the anticipation must be worse than the reality," she thought; "one is a coward before-hand. Never mind if I can only find words to tell him the truth when the time comes. I am not the first who has to suffer for trying to do the right thing." Queenie was cheering herself up in sturdy fashion, but she turned a little pale, nevertheless, when the servant re-entered and bade her follow him. "The execution will soon be over," she said to herself, as she rose; "only in my case perhaps the pain will not cease."