"I feel queer" he said to his wife. "I think I--I won't--I won't speak any more. I feel so--so queer." Her eyes were fixed on him now, and his on hers. He smiled and tapped his forehead lightly with his hand. "It's nothing," he said. "You were pleased, weren't you, to-night?" Again he put his hands in hers. She found no word to say and they stood like this for a moment. The cheers ceased, the crowd outside was puzzled. Marchmont jumped up from his chair and walked forward hastily. "Anything wrong?" he asked. Neither heeded him. May's eyes were set in terror on her husband's face; for now she was holding him up by the power of her hands gripped in his; without them he would fall. Nay, he would fall now! He spoke in a low thick voice. "It's come," he said, "it's come." And he sank back into Weston Marchmont's arms, his wife letting go his hands and standing rigid. Old Foster ran in again, calling, "Are you ready, sir?" He found his answer. Alexander Quisante would speak no more in Henstead. He was leaning against Marchmont, breathing heavily and with sore difficulty. May went to him; she was very white and very calm; she took his hand and kissed it. "I--I--I spoke well?" he muttered. "Didn't I?" "Very very finely, Alexander." "They were--were all wrong in saying I couldn't do it," he murmured. He shivered again and then was still. The Dean had brought a chair and they put him in it. But he moved no more. May looked at old Foster who stood by, his face wrung with helpless distress and consternation. "We've killed him among us, I and you and the people out there," she said. CHAPTER XXI. A RELICT. "Yes, I asked her," said Weston Marchmont, "but--Well, I don't think she'd mind you reading her letter, and I should rather like you to." He flung it across the table to Dick Benyon. "I half see what she means," said he, lighting a cigarette. Dick took the letter with an impatient frown. "I don't," he said, as he settled himself to read it.