AT THE GATE OF HEAVEN. Time hung heavily on Mrs. Trelane’s hands for all the comfort and luxury of the house. She missed the freedom, missed the theaters, the little suppers at restaurants, missed more than either the companionship of the men who were wont to gather round her in London--gentlemen with reputations out at elbows, but clever, amusing, the very salt of life to Helen Trelane. Therefore, she said at breakfast, with a little distasteful sigh, that she must go to London, to see the dressmaker. Ismay lifted her brows. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. You can bully people better in writing.” Her tone was very significant. She supposed the “dressmaker” meant an appeal to the mercy of a man who had none, and then a mad whirl of amusement, her mourning thrown to the winds. But she was wrong. Mrs. Trelane had no thought of Wray. “I really must go,” she said, “annoying as it is. Should you mind, Cristiane?” “Not a bit. You won’t stay long, will you? I shall teach Ismay to ride while you are gone,” with a little, affectionate glance. “We shall be quite happy.” “Oh, no! Not long, of course.” In spite of herself, her tone was joyous as a child’s. To be in London, with money, to drink deep of life again. No wonder her voice betrayed her. Ismay followed her to her room, where she stood, in her smart mourning. “The Gaiety, the Café Royal, and cards afterward till daylight may be amusing,” she observed cuttingly, “but they are not worth your neck.” “What do you mean?” In her annoyance, Mrs. Trelane almost dropped the bottle of peach-blossom scent in her hand. “I mean you’ll go to London, and wear a white gown in the evenings, with a string of mock pearls round your neck. Because the gossip about Lord Abbotsford has died away you are quite comfortable,” Ismay retorted; “and about now the police will be waking up to their work. London will not be a good retreat for the person who killed him!” “Ismay!” The scent-bottle crashed on the floor now from the loosened fingers; strong and sickly, its contents flooded the room. “Ismay, are you mad? What has come over you? You know that”--her voice fell to a frightened whisper--“that he was dead when I went there.” She looked old and wretched as she stood, ready dressed to start. “I know what you choose to tell me. Oh! mother,” passionately, “let us both go away from here, go somewhere that is safe, and live quietly, you and I. I’ll work for you----” A laugh cut her short. Yet Mrs. Trelane stood, wringing her hands. “You know we can’t get away,” she cried, “and why should we? I never killed Abbotsford!” “Then why are you so frightened of Marcus Wray?” deliberately.