She recalled Mrs. Purcell's letter, and her description of Carson. She read over the extracts she had made, with the result that she wrote again to Casterwell; this time--of all people--to Mrs. Drabble. That lady's reply roused the strongest suspicions in her regarding her husband, and she felt the time had come when she could no longer cope with things unaided. Her first impulse was to call in the assistance of Mr. Dimbal, but on second thoughts she refrained. The little jog-trot solicitor was hardly the man to deal with a clever scoundrel of Carson's type, for scoundrel she now fully believed him to be. There was Mallow; he was capable beyond a doubt, and by his love for her had he not claimed the right to serve her in time of need? She would write to him without loss of time. The next day he was at Sandbeach. Olive was in her sitting-room when the servant brought up his name. In the adjacent bedroom Clara was attending to her work. "Ah, Mrs. Carson," he said (he had schooled himself to say the name), "I am indeed glad to see you again. But--but, you are not looking after yourself!" "Oh, I am well enough, really," said Olive, giving him her hand, "but I am terribly worried." "Worried?" repeated Mallow, sitting down near her, "worried? what about?" Before Olive could reply, the door leading to the bedroom opened abruptly, and Clara came in with a hat in her hand. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," said the maid, "but do you wish this hat left out from the packing?" "Yes, of course," replied Olive, astonished at her asking so unnecessary a question. "Thank you, ma'am." The girl retired. Olive would have been more than astonished, had she seen her a minute later. The door was left slightly ajar, and the girl's ear was taking in every word she could catch. "That young woman is still with you, I see," observed Laurence. "Yes, she is a very excellent servant," replied Olive. "Why?" "Oh, nothing. I merely remarked the fact," said Mallow, who had his reasons for keeping his own counsel. "But, to continue our conversation, why are you worried?" "I will tell you everything shortly. Meanwhile I want you to read this." Olive placed in his hands the extracts she had copied from Mrs. Purcell's letter, and pointed out to him one paragraph in particular: "Mr. Carson has had golden wrist-buttons made to match his unique bracelet, wrought in the same style, but of vastly inferior workmanship." "Well?" "Now look at this." She detached her brooch and laid it on the table. It was a circular gold ornament, carved with the three faces of the Hindoo trinity encircled by a lotus wreath; a handsome, but odd, piece of workmanship. "An Indian wrist-button," said Mallow, looking at it carefully. "Imitated from Carson's bracelet, no doubt. I suppose it is one of those referred to by Mrs. Purcell." "It is; I am sure of it." "Carson gave it to you?"