“I’m glad of that! How did you come to be sent for?” Thinking it might help him to gain her confidence, Dr. Netherbridge drew from his pocket Sir Philip’s summons. Lady Cranstoun read it eagerly. After she had returned it to him, silence reigned for a few seconds. Her next question appeared startlingly irrelevant. “The sessions are on at Guildford to-day, are they not?” “I believe so.” “And Sir Philip’s note was sent here from Guildford ordering the carriage to go for you?” “No doubt he was very anxious about you,” said the doctor, hardly realizing what he was expected to say. She stared at him for a few seconds, and then broke into a bitter, mirthless laugh. “You don’t know, then?” she said. “After all, why should you? Yet I feel sure I can trust you. What is your name?” “Ernest Netherbridge.” “Dr. Netherbridge, Sir Philip hates me only a little less than I hate him.” Silence again. It was obviously impossible to comment upon such an unexpected statement. She stared at the fire, and then, suddenly clasping her thin white hands, she fixed her great eyes beseechingly upon his face. “Will you help me?” she asked, in a whisper full of intensity. “I haven’t a friend in the house except Margaret. Every one is against me.” “Surely your illness makes you fanciful,” he was beginning, when she cut him short impatiently. “Ah! don’t talk like that--like the others did! Sir Philip so longs for an heir. We had a child, a boy, who died--I am glad, very glad that he is dead--and he wishes me to have every care now, not for my sake, but for the sake of the family name. I have been trying to starve myself; I suppose you can see that; but if you will give me the information I want, I will take your medicines or anything.” “Tell me what you want me to do, Lady Cranstoun.” “Find out for me all that took place in court to-day. Sir Philip went to Guildford early--I found out so much--but they will not let me see the papers, they will not let me hear!” She was quivering from head to foot in fierce, ungovernable excitement, and her eyes were shining with a feverish glitter. “There is some great anxiety on your mind,” he said, kindly. “Will you not confide in me more fully?” She glanced nervously about her, and finally thrust her hand among the folds of her dress about her neck, and slipped in his hand a crumpled letter, ill-spelt, and written evidently by an imperfectly educated person. “My Own Daughter Clare” (it began),