“Well, go and see after her, mother.” Mrs. Heywood went toward the bedroom door and called out in her silvery voice: “Are you ready, dear?” She listened for a moment, and called out again: “Clare!” Herbert poured some more whisky into the decanter. “I expect she’s reading one of those beastly pamphlets,” he said. Mrs. Heywood tapped at the bedroom door. “Clare!” “Go in, mother,” said Herbert irritably. “It’s very strange!” said Mrs. Heywood in an anxious voice. She went into the bedroom, and Herbert, who had been watching her, spilled some of the whisky, so that he muttered to himself: “What with women and what with whisky----” He did not finish his sentence, but stared in the direction of the bedroom as though suspecting something was wrong. Mrs. Heywood came trembling out. She had a scared look. “Oh, Herbert!” Herbert was alarmed by the look on her face. “Is Clare ill--or something?” “She isn’t there,” said Mrs. Heywood. The old lady was rather breathless. “Not there!” said Herbert in a dazed way. “She went in to dress a few minutes ago,” said his mother. Herbert stared at her. He was really very much afraid, but he spoke irritably: “Well, she can’t have gone up the chimney, can she? At least, I suppose not, though you never can tell nowadays.” He strode toward the bedroom door and called out: “Clare!” Then he went inside. Mrs. Heywood stood watching the open door. She raised her hands up and then let them fall, and spoke in a hoarse kind of whisper: “I think it has happened at last.” Herbert came out of the bedroom again. He looked pale, and had gloomy eyes. “It’s devilish queer!” he said. Mother and son stood looking at each other, as though in the presence of tragedy. “She must have gone out,” said Mrs. Hey-wood. “Gone out! What makes you think so?” “She has taken her hat and cloak.” “How do you know?” asked Herbert. “I looked in the wardrobe.” “Good Heavens! Where’s she gone to?” Mrs. Heywood’s thin old hands clutched at the white lace upon her bosom. “Herbert, I--I am afraid.” The man went deadly white. He stammered as he spoke: “You don’t mean that she is going to do something--foolish?” “Something rash,” said Mrs. Hey wood mournfully. Herbert had a sudden idea. It took away from his fear a little and made him angry. “Perhaps she has gone round to church. If so, I will give her a piece of my mind when she comes back. It’s outrageous! It’s shameful.” There was the sound of a bell ringing through the hall, and the mother and son listened intently. “Perhaps she _has_ come back,” said Herbert. “Perhaps she went to fetch some flowers.” This idea seemed to soften him. His voice broke a little when he said: “Poor girl! I didn’t mean to make such a fuss about them.” “It isn’t Clare,” said Mrs. Heywood, shaking her head. “It’s a visitor. I hear Mr. Atkinson Brown’s voice.” Mr. Atkinson Brown’s voice could be heard quite plainly in the hall: