“She’ll do now, I think,” the doctor said thoughtfully. “But it’s a peculiar case. It was not that she was in danger of death from drowning, but there seemed to have been something in the shock. I don’t know”--more briskly--“but she will do well now. She looks frail, but her vitality is tremendous. But, my dear man, you must go home at once unless you wish to die of pneumonia. Come with me in the brougham. You can come back again later on. There’s no sense in shivering to death here when you can’t see either of the victims.” He carried Cylmer off, and deposited him, rolled in a fur rug, at his own door. And not till he was being stripped of his soaked clothes by his fussy servant did Miles discover that he held something in his hand. It was the card Cristiane had given him, the penciled words only a blur now. “Does she mean she never got it? Is that why she called Ismay a liar and a thief for the carelessness of some servant?” he thought contemptuously. “I must tell the lady a few plain truths, I fancy. I’d tell her everything this very night if I could get Ismay to consent. But, of course, she won’t be up. I sha’n’t see either of them, probably. If I do Miss Cristiane shall retire in tears,” with a grim smile. In spite of what the doctor had said, Mr. Cylmer only made a pretense of eating his dinner. He drove over to Marchant’s Hold without so much as waiting for his coffee. Even Mrs. Trelane, who hated him, would be civil to him to-night, since but for him Ismay would be lying dead. He went straight into the drawing-room, prepared to meet Mrs. Trelane only. But she was not there. He paused, and saw on a distant sofa Cristiane, her head bowed on her hands. “Cristiane,” his heart had sickened at her attitude, “what’s the matter? She’s not--not dead?” “She? Do you mean Ismay?” She lifted her lovely eyes, drowned in tears. “Not she. Why, Miles? Do you care--so much?” “Never mind what I do. If she is all right why are you crying?” sternly. “Because she’s made me be so horrid to you!” “You needn’t cry on my account,” he said, looking down at her, “I can assure you. And how do you mean she had made you horrid to me?” “Because that card I gave you--I never got it. I thought you had never come near me, and so I hated you.” “Never got it! But you gave it to me.” “Ismay pulled it out of her pocket this morning with her handkerchief, and I picked it up. Oh, Miles!” her downcast face sweet, imploring, “can you ever forgive me?” “Forgive you?”--impatiently. “I don’t know what you’re driving at! You don’t mean you think Ismay kept it from you on purpose? Was that why you dared to call her a thief?” His tone maddened her. She sat up and looked at him, sorrowfully, with pained surprise. “Miles, you don’t care for her?” she whispered. “Why do you speak of her like that? She saved your life”--coldly.