"Yes," said the doctor, slowly. "The duchess sent me. She was at the War Office this morning when the news came in, inquiring for Ronald Ingram, who has been wounded, and is down with fever. She telephoned for me, and insisted on the telegram being kept back until six o'clock this evening, in order to give me time to get here, and to break the news to you first, if it seemed well." Myra gazed at him, wide-eyed. "And you let me say all that, about Michael and myself?" "Dear lady," said the doctor, and few had ever heard that deep firm voice, so nearly tremulous, "I could not stop you. But you did not say one word which was not absolutely loving and loyal." "How could I have?" queried Myra, her face growing whiter, and her eyes wider and more bright. "I have never had a thought which was not loyal and loving." "I know," said the doctor. "Poor brave heart,--I know." Myra took up the telegram, and read it again. "Killed," she said; "_killed_. I wish I knew how." "The duchess is ready to come to you immediately, if you would like to have her," suggested the doctor. "No," said Myra, smiling vaguely. "No; I think not. Not unless dear mamma comes. If that happens we must wire for the duchess, because now--now Michael is away--she is the only person who can cope with mamma. But please not, otherwise; because--well, you see,--she said she could not live up to Michael; and it does not sound funny now." "Is there anybody you would wish sent for at once?" inquired the doctor, wondering how much larger and brighter those big grey eyes could grow; and whether any living face had ever been so absolutely colourless. "Anybody I should wish sent for at once? I don't know. Oh, yes--there is one person; if she could come. Jane--you know? Jane Dalmain. I always say she is like the bass of a tune; so solid, and satisfactory, and beneath one. Nothing very bad could happen, if Jane were there. But of course this _has_ happened; hasn't it?" The doctor sat down. "I wired to Gleneesh this morning," he said. "Jane will be here early to-morrow." "Then lots of people knew before I did?" said Lady Ingleby. The doctor did not answer. She rose, and stood looking down into the fire; her tall graceful figure drawn up to its full height, her back to the doctor, whose watchful eyes never left her for an instant. Suddenly she looked across to Lord Ingleby's chair. "And I believe _Peter_ knew," she said, in a loud, high-pitched voice. "Good heavens! Peter knew; and refused his food because Michael was dead. And _I_ said he had dyspepsia! Michael, oh Michael! Your wife didn't know you were dead; but your dog knew! Oh Michael, Michael! Little Peter knew!" She lifted her arms toward the picture of the big man and the tiny dog. Then she swayed backward. The doctor caught her, as she fell. CHAPTER IV IN SAFE HANDS All through the night Lady Ingleby lay gazing before her, with bright unseeing eyes.