Very slowly did she walk past one great house, with heavy stained glass in the dining-room windows, and an elaborate gorgon’s head for the brass knocker. As she drew near the broad white steps, the door, which bore the name of Dr. Thomas Ivery, opened, and a woman came out, hastily drawing a veil over tear-stained features. With a sudden movement, our pedestrian stepped forward and arrested the staid man-servant in the very act of closing the door. “Can I see Dr. Ivery?” she asked. “Well, ma’am”—the well-trained servant hesitated—“his consulting hours are just over. Have you an appointment with him?” “No,” she frankly admitted. “But I think he may see me. Will you ask him, please?—say that Mrs. Challoner of Pelham Street will be so grateful if he can spare her a few minutes.” “I will ask him, ma’am,” answered the man of the imperturbable face. “Will you wait here for his answer?” And he showed her into the front room with the stained glass windows, of whose glories in the deepening gloom of the autumn afternoon little was visible save one waving streak of crimson like a stream of blood. To her tense mood, the room seemed heavy with the atmosphere of doom. She wondered whether the apartment had any other uses, whether a happy family ever gathered about the great hearth, or a merry party ever sat around the long dining-table. There were big pictures on the walls, though all she could see of them was spaces of darkness and mystery enclosed by heavy gilt frames. A bust stood ghostly in the furthest corner. She had not to wait long. The man-servant threw open the door. “Dr. Ivery will see Mrs. Challoner,” he announced, as if she were one of a waiting group. “Will you walk this way, madam.” She followed him along a gloomy passage. He ushered her into a room, cheerful and homelike compared with that she had left. This got the last of the day’s brightness through a big west window overlooking some open space; it was lined with books; a great blue jar filled with red flowers stood in one corner; one or two homely crayon portraits and weak little water-colours hung immediately behind the doctor, as he sat in front of his desk. “Mrs. Challoner?” he said, half-interrogatively. He had never seen her in walking dress before. There was a suggestion of anxiety in his tone. “Yes, Mrs. Challoner, Pelham Street,” she humbly explained. “Will you forgive me, sir, and tell me if I am doing wrong. I so want to speak to you about my husband.” “Ah, your husband,” echoed the doctor. “Yes, yes—nothing wrong anew, I hope.” “Oh, no,” she answered. “All is going on well, so well that I know——” she paused. “I want to consult you privately, Dr. Ivery. I could get no opportunity while Charlie was so very ill, and since he has been better only the young doctor has come, so I thought if I might visit you here—if you will forgive me?”