Ismay Trelane, who hated death, would have stayed away for hours, but she dared not. With lagging feet she came at last to the great hall door, with its motto over it: “What Marchant held let Marchant hold,” its pride a mockery, grim and trenchant, for there was a streamer of crape on the door-handle. A deadly terror of being out there alone came over her. She pulled desperately at the door-handle. If she had seen Marcus Wray he would be on his way to Marchant’s Hold; she would die if he came and caught her here alone. “Thomas,” she cried. “What’s the matter?” The old butler who let her in could hardly answer. “My master’s dead, Miss Trelane,” he whispered, “killed in a railway accident.” “Dead!” she fairly staggered. That would mean turning out into the world again. She ran wildly past him up-stairs to her mother’s room. CHAPTER XI. A NET FOR HER FEET. Mrs. Trelane, her face drawn and gray, stood staring out of the window. As Ismay returned she turned with sharp relief. “Where have you been? Why did you go out like that and stay so long?” she demanded fiercely. “I have been almost wild here, with no one to speak to. Do you know that we’re ruined? That Sir Gaspard is dead?” The girl nodded. “I saw the flag half-mast--I asked Thomas.” Her face was suddenly very tired. “How did you hear--and are you sure it’s true?” “True enough. Look here.” She tossed a telegram toward the girl, who caught the fluttering paper deftly. “From Bolton & Carey to Mrs. Trelane,” the message ran. “Fatal accident on the railway just before Aix. Have received wire that Sir Gaspard le Marchant and servant are among those killed, and fear there is no doubt it is not true. Break news to daughter. Will send particulars as soon as they can be obtained.” “How did they know you were here?” “Sir Gaspard told them I was to be here during his absence. I know Mr. Bolton--or I did when I was Helen le Marchant,” impatiently. “There’s no mystery about that.” “Have you told Cristiane?” “No!” Mrs. Trelane flung herself into a chair and twisted her smooth fingers uneasily. “She’s asleep. She came in dead tired and lay down. Her maid is watching to tell her when she wakes. How can I tell her? If I do it, it will make her hate me.” With quick contempt Ismay glanced at her. “On the contrary, it may be your only chance with her,” she said angrily. “Tell me, had you any arrangement, any bargain, with Sir Gaspard?” “None,” with a sullen shake of the head. “We were asked here on a visit, you and I, ’till things could be arranged,’ he said. But I know that we were here on approval, if you like to call it so. If the girl liked us we were to stay on indefinitely----”