In this I got encouragement from the fact that one day in Fifth Avenue I met my uncle Van Elstine. He didn’t know me. He wouldn’t have cut me for anything in the world; he was too good-natured and kind; but he let his wandering gaze rest on me as on any passing stranger, and went on his way. I argued then that time, vicissitude, a hard life, and a mustache had worked an effective disguise. If my own uncle, who had known me all my life, could go by like that, how much more one to whom I could be nothing but a sinister shadow seen for three or four minutes in a rose-colored gloom. So I reasoned and became a little comforted. And then one day my arguments were put to the test. It was quite at the end of September. The memorial was now so nearly completed that Coningsby, who had returned to town, left it almost entirely to my charge. A new bit of work at Atlantic City having come his way, he was closely absorbed in it. Mrs. Grace had motored up once or twice to consult me as to papers, rugs, and other details of interior decoration. I found her a grave, beautiful woman who gave the impression of nourishing something that lasts longer than grief—a deep regret. Our intercourse was friendly but impersonal. Once she was accompanied by a young lady whose voice I recognized as they approached the room in which I was at work. It was a clear, bell-like, staccato voice, whose tones would have made my heart stop still had I heard it in heaven. Mrs. Grace entered the room, followed by a girl as Anglo-Saxon in type as her brother, only with a decision and precision in the manner which he had not. In my confusion I was uncertain as to whether or not there was an introduction, but I remember her saying: “Oh, Mr. Melbury, Ralph is so indebted to you for all the help you’ve given him. He says if it hadn’t been for you he wouldn’t have been able to get away from New York this summer.” She, too, regarded me impersonally, as her brother’s assistant, and no more. I mean by that that she showed none of the interest good people generally display in a brand that has been plucked from the burning. “Is it possible she doesn’t know it?” I asked Cantyre the next time I saw him. “Of course she doesn’t. That would be the last thing Coningsby would tell her. We never speak of these things outside the club. If a fellow likes to do it himself—well, that’s his own affair.” But early in October I came face to face with it all. I was standing at one of the upper windows, looking down into Blankney Place, when I saw a motor drive up to the door. I knew it was Mrs. Grace’s motor, having seen it a number of times already. When the footman held open the door Mrs. Grace herself stepped out, to be followed by Miss Coningsby, who in turn was followed by....