reminding her of him--that she couldn't stand it, and so had to change it." CHAPTER XXXVII. THE WIDOW'S THEORY OF THE CASE. When Mrs. Davenport got back to the hotel, she inquired if any telegram had come for her, and was told not. She seemed displeased, disappointed. She asked questions, and discovered that it would be next to impossible that her telegram could reach London before the departure of the morning mail. This put things right, for she felt certain that if Blake got her message he would have replied. He was on his way, and would be in Dublin that evening. In Dublin, yes; but how should he know where to seek her? She spoke to the manager, to whom she explained her difficulty. If the lady telegraphed to the mail-boat at Holyhead, the gentleman would be sure to get the message. She thanked the manager, and adopted his suggestion. The day was unpleasant under foot and overhead. There were no friends upon whom she wished to call. The ten years of secluded life at Kilcash House had severed all connection with old acquaintances, and she had made no new ones. She remained by herself in the sitting-room. She did not even try to read. She sat in the window, and kept her eyes turned towards the busy street. It could not be said she watched the crowds and vehicles, or was even conscious of their existence. She kept her eyes in their direction--that was all. Luncheon was brought in. She sat at the table for a quarter of an hour, ate something, and then went back to the old place at the window. It was dark before dinner appeared, but she did not ring for lights. When dinner was over, it was close to the time for the arrival of the mail. She put on her bonnet, and went to Westland Row terminus. The weather was still unpleasant, but she did not care, did not heed it. She had not long to wait in that dismal, squalid cavern at the foot of the stone steps leading down from the platform. The train rumbled in, and the passengers began to descend and pass between the double row of people. Suddenly she stepped forward and touched a man on the arm. He turned quickly, and looked at her, exclaiming: "You here, Marion! I got your telegram on the boat." "I was afraid it might miss you, so I thought it safer to come myself." "What extraordinary story is this? I can scarcely believe you were serious when you wired me yesterday from Rugby." "I was in no humour for jesting," she said. "This is no place to talk in. Wait until we get to the hotel." When they were seated in Mrs. Davenport's sitting-room, he waited for her to speak. She was in the arm of the couch--he by the table, with his elbow resting on it. They were facing one another. She clasped her hands in her lap and rested against the back of the couch. She was deadly pale, and when she spoke her voice was low, firm, and full of thought.