“There wasn’t the ghost of a quiver in her voice. “‘I must, I will!’ I said, and I made a movement towards her—a violent movement I know it was. “But the old thing stood her ground. Oh, she was a gallant old woman. “‘Do what you like to me,’ she said. ‘I’m old. What does it matter? She’s young.’ “Then I knew she understood. “‘You’ve seen them together!’ I said. ‘Since I went!’ “She wouldn’t say. Not a word. I was mad. I forgot decency, everything. I took her. I searched her for the revolver. I searched her roughly—God forgive me. She trembled horribly, but never said a word. It wasn’t on her. She must have hidden it somewhere in that moment when she was alone in the cottage. That was another ruse to keep me searching in there while—But I saw it almost directly. I broke away, and rushed out and down the road. Something seemed to tell me they had passed. I got into the lane that leads to Charfield. The fly was gone. Then, all of a sudden, I felt perfectly calm. I turned, and went up to the Abbey gates. I knocked them up at the lodge. The keeper came out. When he saw me he said: “‘You, my lord! However did you know?’ “‘Go on!’ I said. ‘Know what?’ “‘About Master Hugo?’ “I didn’t say one way or the other. “‘The doctor says it’s a bitter bad quinsy, but there’s just a chance. Her ladyship’s nearly mad. It only came on a few hours ago quite sudden.’ “I went up to the Abbey, and found Vere by the child’s bed. She looked flushed, and was breathing hard, as if she had just been running.” He stopped, and took out his cigar-case. “Running!” I said. “She had parted finally from Glynd in front of Miss Bassett’s cottage,” he said. “He told me that afterwards.” There was a moment’s silence. Then he spoke more calmly. “I went up to town when the child was safe, and had it out with Glynd. They had meant to go that night. It was the boy who stopped her. She took it as a judgment. You know how women are. Glynd swore she was stopped in time. You understand?” “Yes.” “He didn’t lie to me.” “And your wife?” “I never spoke of it to her. I saw her with the boy, and—well, I saw her with the boy, and what she was to him when he was close to death.” His voice went for a moment. Then he added: “I told her I’d had a presentiment Hugo was ill. She believed me, I think. If not, she’s kept her secret.” Just then the dining-room door opened, and Lady Inley put in her pretty head. “Are you never coming?” she said with her little childish drawl. I got up, and went towards her. “By the way, Nino,” she added, “the bell was for poor, funny old Miss Bassett. What will her cat do, I wonder?” As I followed her towards the drawing-room I heard Inley’s voice mutter behind me: “_Requiescat in Pace._” PANCRAZIA’S HAIR