“I’ve told him that I’ve considered the matter, and I’ve decided that I could not marry him--in any circumstances it would be impossible now, so soon after Harry’s disappearance.” He picked up the letter and, taking out his pocket case, tore off a stamp and affixed it. “I’ll see that this goes,” he said grimly. Then, seeing her tired face: “Poor old girl, you’re having a bad time.” The pressure of her hand, the love and sympathy in her voice, were almost too much for him, and he had to set his teeth or he would have taken her in his arms, and, in that place of tragedy and horror, told her of the love that was shaking him, and which had added a new and fearful burden to his overstrung nerves. “Go to bed early,” he said, with an effort at gaiety, “and rise with the dawn. I shall be busy till very late.” “The butler was telling me that you have ordered a basket of food for the policemen.” Not a muscle of his face moved. “That is so; one or two men who are patrolling the cutting need a little light refreshment. They cannot get to the house and we haven’t men to relieve them.” She was sensible enough not to pursue the subject. It was only on her earnest entreaty that, as the night grew on, Mary Wenner remained. The girl was a bundle of nerves, started at every sound, paled and flushed with the opening of a door, and the sound of a falling plate in the servery whilst they were at dinner had made her scream. “I can’t help it, my dear; I’m naturally temperamental,” she explained. “And this house has got me shivering. I can’t leave another young lady without a chaperon, or I’d fly off to London before it got dark.” She had been in the library that afternoon, she told Leslie, and the sight of that familiar room with its empty chair had been almost the last straw. “I had to have a good cry,” she confessed, “and I’m not ashamed of it. Harry was one of the best--you don’t mind me calling him Harry, do you, dear?” And, when Leslie shook her head: “I can’t say that I was fond of him as a young girl ought to be fond of a man she loves, but he was very nice. He had his tempers, the same as the rest of us, but they were only his high spirits. I could never understand why he hated Mr. Alford.” Leslie looked at her incredulously. “Hated Mr. Alford?” she repeated. “Surely you’re mistaken? They were very good friends.” Mary shook her head. “No, they weren’t,” she said. “It all arose out of her ladyship’s picture.” “The late Lady Chelford?” “That was the lady,” nodded Mary. “It happened three years ago. Dick Alford suggested that the portrait should be moved to the gallery. I think he was silly to say it, knowing how Harry adored his mother, and when he said the picture was depressing--and that was the silliest thing of all--Harry got right up in the air! It was dreadful, the things he said to Mr. Alford--and before me, too! Dick Alford realized his mistake: I could see that, and he tried to pacify Harry, but for a fortnight they didn’t speak.”