“Yes, there is always a gloom upon the house when you are away—a much deeper gloom since last summer. No sooner am I alone than I begin to think of that dreadful night when my poor girl saw her murdered husband lying at her feet. Yes, James, you are right in sending me away. I shall be happy at the Priory with my darling—and she can never again be happy with me in this house.” Lord Cheriton breakfasted in his wife’s room—it was only an apology for breakfast, for he was too agitated to eat; but he refreshed himself with a cup of strong tea, and he enjoyed the restfulness of his wife’s companionship while he sat there waiting for the carriage which was to take him to Wareham. “What makes you so uneasy about Mrs. Porter?” Lady Cheriton asked presently. “The suddenness and strangeness of her departure, in the first place. It would have been only natural she should have communicated with you or me before she left. And, in the second place, I have been made uneasy by an observation of Mr. Ramsay’s. He has conceived the opinion that Mrs. Porter is not altogether right in her mind—that there is a strain of madness.” “Oh, James, that would be dreadful!” “Yes, it would be dreadful to think of her wandering about alone. The very fact that she has hardly left that cottage for the last twenty years, except to go to church, would make her nervous and helpless among strangers and in a strange town. She would hardly be able to take care of herself, perhaps—and if, in addition to this, her mind is not quite right——” “Oh, poor thing! It is terrible to think of it. And you do not even know where she has gone?” “She told the servant she was going to London. God knows whether that is true or false. She took no luggage, not even a hand-bag.” “She may have gone to her daughter.” “To Mercy? Yes, that is an idea. It never occurred to me. She has been so cold and hard about her daughter in all these years—and yet it may be so. She may have relented at last.” A servant announced the carriage. His Lordship’s portmanteau had been got in, and all was ready. “Good-bye, Maria. I have no time to lose, as I have inquiries to make and telegrams to despatch at the station.” “You will stay in Victoria Street, of course?” “Yes. I shall telegraph to Mrs. Begby. I am taking Wilson; I shall be very well taken care of, be sure, dearest.” He kissed her and hurried away. He sighed as he left that atmosphere of perfect peace—sighed again as he thought of the business that lay before him. He had to find her—this murderess—he had to prove that she was mad—if it were possible—and to put her away for the rest of her days in some safe retreat, secure from the hazard of discovery—a hard and bitter task for the man who had once loved her, and whose love had been her destruction. He made his inquiries of the station-master. Yes, Mrs. Porter had left by the early train. She had taken a second-class ticket for Waterloo.