Soon came a day of mystery and horror to her. She was alone in the little sitting-room on the ground floor, purely her own. It faced west. Broad daylight flooded the garden before her, the rolling downs beyond. Suddenly the light of the window by which she sat was obscured. The window was opened by Fahey. She motioned him to enter. By way of reply he made an impatient gesture. "Is he in?" asked Fahey, breathlessly. "No," she answered. "Can I do anything for you?" She now saw he was in violent agitation, and physically distressed. He continued: "I have not a moment to spare. Say to him, 'All is well. All is safe for him.' I have arranged that." "Safe!" she answered. "Does any danger threaten my husband?" "Yes, while I am here--while I live." "You--you would not hurt him?" She remembered the look of admiration she had seen in this man's eyes, and rose and recoiled in horror. "Give him my message. Repeat all I have said, except this: 'I am not doing it for his sake, or my own sake, but for yours. Good-bye.' Tell no one else of my being here; no one but him--not a soul." In a moment he was gone. The next thing she heard of him was that he had drowned himself in the hideous Puffing Hole. At first she had been inclined to think Fahey's words referred solely to his feelings towards her; but when she learned he had drowned himself she doubted this. Against what was her husband secure? To say he was secure against Fahey's admiration for her would be the height of gratuitous absurdity. She cared no more for the young man than for any misty figure in a fable. He must be mad; yes, that was it. That supposition made all simple--explained everything. It was night when her husband returned. She, remembering Fahey's caution, and bearing in mind that walls have ears, went to the gate of the grounds, and there met Davenport. He had heard of Fahey's fate. It was dark--pitch dark--when she gave him the message with which she had been charged. "Poor Michael!" her husband said--"poor Michael! Unfortunate fellow!" He said no more then, and rarely spoke of the man afterwards. Davenport was not a communicative man, and there was nothing noteworthy in his silence.