She thought it was Majendie come back again, and she was surprised when Kate came to her and told her that it was Mr. Hannay, and that he wished to speak to her at once. Hannay was downstairs, in the study; standing with his back to the fireplace. He did not come forward to meet her. His rosy, sensual face was curiously set. As she approached him, his loose lips moved and closed again in a firm fold. He pressed her hand without speaking. His heaviness and immobility alarmed her. "What is it?" she asked. Her heart was like a wild whirlpool that sucked back her voice and suffocated it. "I've come with very bad news, Mrs. Majendie." "Tell me," she whispered. "Walter is ill--very dangerously ill." "He is dead." The words seemed to come from her without grief, without any feeling. She felt nothing but a dull, dragging pain under her left breast, as if the doors of her heart were closed and its chambers full to bursting. "No. He is not dead." Her heart beat again. "He's dying, then." "They don't know." "Where is he?" "At Scarby." "Scarby? How much time have I?" "There's a train at ten-twenty. Can you be ready in five--seven minutes?" "Yes." She rang the bell. "Tell Kate where to send my things," she said as she left the room. Her mind took possession of her, so that she did not waste a word of her lips, or a single motion of her feet. She came back in five minutes, ready to start. "What is it?" she said as they drove to the station. "Haemorrhage of the brain." "The brain?" "Apoplexy." "Is he unconscious?" "Yes." She closed her eyes. "He will not know me," she said. Hannay was silent. She lay back and kept her eyes closed. A van blocked the narrow street that led to the East Station. The driver reined in his horse. She opened her eyes in terror. "We shall miss the train--if we stop." "No, no, we've plenty of time." They waited. "Oh, tell him to drive round the other way." "We shall miss the train if we do _that_." "Well, make that man in front move on. Make him turn--up there." The van turned into a side street, and they drove on. The Scarby train was drawn up along the platform. They had five minutes before it started; but she hurried into the nearest compartment. They had it to themselves. The train moved on. It was a two hours' journey to Scarby. A strong wind blew through the open window and she shivered. She had brought no warm wrap with her. Hannay laid his overcoat over her knees and about her body. His large hands moved gently, wrapping it close. She thanked him and tried to smile. And when he saw her smile, Hannay was sorry for the things he had thought and said of her. His voice when he spoke to her vibrated tenderly. She resigned herself to his hands. Grief made her passive now.