“Where’s Katie?” asked her father. “She’s generally down before anyone.” Henry, who, in the contemplation of his mother, had forgotten, for the moment, his sister’s strange behaviour, said: “Oh! she’ll be late, I expect. I saw her go out about seven. Had to see Penhaligan about something important, she told me. Went out into all that storm.” As he spoke eight o’clock struck. Mrs. Trenchard looked up. “Went out to see Penhaligan?” she asked. “Yes, Mother. She didn’t tell me why.” Aunt Betty came in. Her little body, her cheerful smile, her air as of one who was ready to be pleased with anything, might lead a careless observer into the error of supposing that she was a quite ordinary old maid with a fancy for knitting, the Church of England, and hot water with her meals. He would be wrong in his judgment; her sharp little eyes, the corners of her mouth betrayed a sense of humour that, although it had never been encouraged by the family, provided much wise penetration and knowledge. Any casual acquaintance in half an hour’s talk would have discovered in Aunt Betty wisdom and judgment to which her own family would, until the day of its decent and honourable death, be entirely blind. Just now she had lost her spectacles. “My spectacles,” she said. “Hum-hum—Very odd. I had them just before tea. I was working over in that corner—I never moved from there except once when—when—Oh! there they are! No, they are not. And I played ‘Patience’ there, too, in the same corner. Very odd.” “Perhaps, dear,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “you left them in your bedroom.” “No, Harriet, I looked there. Hum-hum-hum. Very odd it is, because—” Millie came in and then Aunt Aggie. “Is Father coming down to-night?” said George. “Yes,” said Mrs. Trenchard. “He said that he felt better. Thought it would be nice to come down. Yes, that it would be rather nice.... Aggie, dear, that’s your sewing, isn’t it? You left it here this morning. Rocket put it between the pages of my novel to mark the place. I knew it was yours—” “Yes, it’s mine,” said Aunt Aggie, shortly. Meanwhile Henry, looking at the door, waited for Katherine. A strange premonition was growing in him that all was not well. Katherine and Philip, they had not appeared—Katherine and Philip.... As he thought of it, it occurred to him that he had not heard Philip moving as he dressed. Philip’s room was next to Henry’s, and the division was thin; you could always hear coughs, steps, the pouring of water, the opening and shutting of drawers. There had been no sounds to-night. Henry’s heart began to beat very fast. He listened to the wind that, now that the storm had swung away, was creeping around the house, trying the doors and windows, rattling something here, tugging at something there, all the pipes gurgled and spluttered with the waters of the storm. “Ah! there they are!” cried Aunt Betty.