Mrs. Findlay was in a serious condition. Though much of the detail was beyond his comprehension, he had no difficulty in understanding that. No time must be lost in getting her to one of the high-altitude cures. Switzerland was recommended as most desirable for one of her type. There were several that were held to be as beneficial in the United States, but for Mrs. Findlay they were not to be preferred if it were possible to send her abroad. Haworth saw it all. To save her life she must be sent to one of those places—and little Mildred taken care of. And there was no one but himself to do it,—no one. Mrs. Temple, pretending to be busy with an unusual amount of cleaning, managed to hover near, not annoying him as he sat distracted or moved blindly about the house, but ready at any time to do what she could—for she saw there was serious trouble. Along toward seven o’clock she made tea and cooked a small chop she’d bought while he was away. When she asked him to come and have his supper, he stared at her vacantly, seeming not to know what she meant; but it came to him after a little, and he seated himself at the table in the small breakfast room without further urging, drinking and eating, but plainly without an idea of what he was doing. Afterward he wandered back into the living room, behaving somewhat as people probably do when they’re walking in their sleep—I never saw one. The old woman glanced in occasionally while doing the dishes, and saw each time that he was sitting there staring into vacancy, the pallor of his face emphasizing the darkness of his deep-set eyes. She was greatly worried, and wasn’t going home _that_ night, no matter what! He might be taken ill or something. She would lie down on the old lounge she’d found in the loft of the barn and brought into the kitchen when all the good furniture was taken away. The last thing before doing this she stole quietly to the door and looked in again. Mr. Haworth hadn’t moved from the chair nor changed his position in any way. She went back to the kitchen and stretched herself on the ancient and moth-eaten sofa. It was a warm evening and she needed no covering. It seemed only a few moments after she fell asleep that she was suddenly awakened by the sound of violent knocking or pounding that apparently came from somewhere in the basement. She listened for a few seconds, alarmed, her old heart doing a corresponding pounding of its own. Haworth hadn’t worked down there for months, and it seemed incredible that he would suddenly go at it again at such an hour, and with the terrible thing, whatever it was, that seemed to be pressing on his mind. But Mrs. Temple was game, if ever a woman was. It was hardly two ticks after the pounding began before she was feeling her way down the basement stairs.