"I hope I know the duty of a husband to his wife. To marry—and then be too much of a coward to acknowledge what he had done! Abominable!" After a pause, Maurice went on—"When he died, why did she not speak out? What possible cause could there have been then, for silence?" He turned upon the Squire. "Why have you insisted on this silence— made her income depend upon secrecy?" "I am not able to explain fully. There were reasons!" "I dare say! For the sake of his grand connections—no doubt!" Maurice all but gave expression to the thought which flamed up—"Perhaps you are one of them!" But the deep flush had come again, mounting to Mr. Stirling's forehead, and he held both hands there, murmuring with evident pain and difficulty— "I cannot have any more of this. You must leave. I am suffering from a very severe headache." Maurice gravely studied the crimsoned brow and its swelling veins. "Yes, I see. You are not well. But I must see you again. I have a right to know more." The Squire, leaning forward and breathing heavily, did not move. Maurice stood up, said "Good-bye" coldly, and walked to the door. There he hesitated, and glanced back. A strained and troubled face the supporting hands—a face of beseeching appeal. It was as if the Squire were being impelled by some strong force to take action, against his own will. "Don't go!" came slowly. "Wait! I have—something to say to you." CHAPTER XXXIX "That was Well Done!" THE omnium gatherum of friends and neighbours, tenants and retainers, had come. It was a warm, brilliant, autumn day. People thronged the house and grounds, the garden and the cricket-field. On this one day in the year, for three hours in the afternoon, all Lynnbrooke was welcome; and Lynnbrooke did not fail to make the most of its opportunity. A slight shadow brooded over the usually light-hearted throng; for the Squire was unwell. He did not appear at the usual time; and it leaked out that he was lying down, much indisposed. Anxious inquiries made known the fact that his doctor had not been summoned, but was enjoying himself with the cricketers; so, of course, nothing could be seriously wrong. Katherine was an enigma that day. She looked excessively pale, and had little to say; yet it could not be said that she seemed unhappy. Something of a small thunderbolt had indeed that morning fallen at her feet. But, to balance a piece of news which touched her most unpleasantly, was the fact that she had again her devoted knight in close attendance. The news had affected him even more acutely in one respect; and he still laboured under a sense of bewilderment at so complete a change in his worldly prospects. But he and Katherine comforted one another; and he hardly left her side. How then could she be really unhappy?