There was great meaning in her voice. He said merely "Perhaps," and she was gone. While she was away he sat perfectly still. There was little or no light from the dull low fire, and as the blinds were down and curtains drawn, none reached the room from the street. In a few minutes he heard the door open and some one enter. She came to her old position by the chimney-piece and said: "Now, if you can find a match, you may light the gas." He had wax cigar-lights in his pocket. He struck one, and in a moment the gas flared up. He looked at her, and cried, starting back: "Merciful heavens, Marion, what masquerade is this!" "No masquerade," she said calmly, scrutinizing him. "These are my widow's weeds come from the mourning warehouse a few minutes ago. They say you ought to be prepared to see me in them." "I--I!--prepared to see you in widow's weeds! Is Davenport dead?" "Women whose husbands are living do not wear such things as these. They say you ought to be prepared to see me dressed as I am now." She touched the streamers of her cap and pointed to the crape of her dress. "What do you mean by saying _they_ say I ought to be prepared for this? Who are _they?_--and what do you mean?" "As I left the room a moment ago, a servant brought me this note. Read it." He took the note and read it first quickly, a second time slowly. Then, letting it fall from his grasp, he threw his hands above his head, and crying out, "Oh, God!" fell back on a chair. CHAPTER VIII. MR. DAVENPORT'S ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER. Shortly after Mrs. Davenport left Carlingford House, Half Moon Lane, that afternoon, a supplementary luncheon was announced, and the four men went into the dining-room. Mr. Paulton had already lunched with the family, but he wished to be with the others; so he sat down at the table with them, and broke a biscuit and half-filled a glass with sherry. Jerry O'Brien and Pringle were in no humour for trifling with food; they were both downright hungry. Alfred ate mechanically, and was much pre-occupied. The talk, therefore, for a quarter of an hour, was slight, fragmentary, as though by some agreement: no one referred to what had just occurred in the library, or to anything else connected with Crescent House. Young Pringle felt that although there must be and are extremely interesting tragedies in the world, luncheon, when one is hungry, was a matter not to be neglected. He had more than once in a criminal court eaten sandwiches and drunk sherry in the interval for luncheon, with the moral certainty that his client, who had been temporarily removed from the dock, would be sentenced to death before the Court rose, and hanged before that day four weeks.