She went slowly downstairs. In the lobby she saw the child, who ran to her and took her hand. ‘Papa is in the study. Come.’ And he tried to draw her along with him. She stooped and kissed him on the brow. ‘Wait for me in the drawing-room,’ she ‘said. ‘Is Aunt Margaret there?’ ‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘You will bring papa?’ He bounded from her, and she walked slowly towards the study. The door was closed, and for a moment she paused, faltering, before she opened it; then she passed in, and saw her husband sitting reading by the fire. He had a newspaper in his hand. At a glance she recognised Lagardère’s journal, the ‘Plain Speaker.’ The room swam round her; she felt as if she was about to faint. But Forster looked up with a bright smile, and tossed down the journal. ‘Ah, my dear Madeline,’ he said. ‘You see I am home early again; I’m afraid I’m losing all my business habits. But good heavens!’ he continued, noticing her face, ‘how pale you look! Is anything the matter?’ ‘Nothing; only--I have a bad headache.’ ‘I am sorry for that. Not so bad, I hope, as to prevent you going out this evening? Serena, who can’t go, has sent me a box for the first night of “A Trip to Scarborough,” at the Parthenon. Talking of Serena, there is a most amusing “Verbal Phototype” of him in the “Plain Speaker.”’ It was clear that he knew nothing, that he had heard nothing, read nothing--though the very journal which contained the poison had just left his hand. Madeline breathed again. There was at least to be a little respite. ‘But you do not look at all yourself,’ he continued, ‘and as the night is damp, you are perhaps better at home.’ ‘Yes; I cannot go.’ ‘I am so sorry, as Aram’s first nights are generally amusing, and you would have enjoyed yourself. What shall we do with the box? It is too late, I fear, to send it to any of your friends.’ ‘_You_ will go, of course,’ said Madeline eagerly. ‘Miss Forster will go with you.* ‘_No_; I shall remain with you.’ ‘You _must_ go!’ The tone was so strange, so full of entreaty, that Forster was startled. He gazed at his wife again with deep solicitude, and drew her gently to his side. ‘I should not think of going out and leaving you alone. My darling, you are far from well. You must see Dr. Quin to-morrow, and see if his advice is any use.’ As he spoke, he drew her down as if to kiss her fondly; but with a nervous shudder she disengaged herself from his arms. ‘No, no!’ she cried. ‘It is only a headache, and will pass away. You must go to the theatre with your sister; I shall be better--when you return.’ ‘I would much rather remain with you.’ ‘But I wish you to go--I--I should be wretched if you remained on my account.’ ‘And I should be wretched there without you. I really will not go.’ ‘Not if I _wish_ it, James?’ ‘Why should you wish it?’ She looked at him sadly, and turned away; for her heart was bursting at sight of his kind face, so gentle and so unsuspecting.