‘I mean this,’ said Sheila firmly. ‘When I went in for the last time to say good-bye—and of course it was at his own wish that I did leave him; and precisely _why_ he wished it is now unhappily only too apparent—I had brought him some money from the bank—fifty pounds, I think; yes, fifty pounds. And quite by the merest chance I glanced down, in passing, at a book he had apparently been reading, a book which he seemed very anxious to conceal with his hand. Arthur is not a great reader, though I believe he studied a little before we were married, and—well, I detest anything like subterfuge, and I said it out without thinking, “Why, you’re reading French, Arthur!” He turned deathly white but made no answer.’ ‘And can’t you even confide to us the title, Sheila?’ sighed Mrs Lovat reproachfully. ‘Wait a minute,’ said Sheila; ‘you shall make as much fun of the thing as you like, Bettie, when I’ve finished. I don’t know why, but that peculiar, stealthy look haunted me. “Why French?” I kept asking myself. “Why French?” Arthur hasn’t opened a French book for years. He doesn’t even approve of the entente_. His argument was that we ought to be friends with the Germans because they are more hostile. Never mind. When Ada came back the next evening and said he was out, I came the following morning—by myself—and knocked. No one answered, and I let myself in. His bed had not been slept in. There were candles and matches all over the house—one even burnt nearly to the stick on the floor in the corner of the drawing-room. I suppose it was foolish, but I was alone, and just that, somehow, horrified me. It seemed to point to such a peculiar state of mind. I hesitated; what was the use of looking further? Yet something seemed to say to me—and it was surely providential—“Go downstairs!” And there in the breakfast-room the first thing I saw on the table was this book—a dingy, ragged, bleared, patched-up, oh, a horrible, a loathsome little book (and I have read bits too here and there); and beside it was my own little school dictionary, my own child’s——’ She looked up sharply. ‘What was that? Did anybody call?’ ‘Nobody _I_ heard,’ said Danton, staring stonily round. ‘It may have been the passing of the wind,’ suggested Mr Craik, after a pause. ‘Peep between the blinds, Mr Craik; it may be poor Mr Bethany confronting Pneumonia in the porch.’ ‘There’s no one there, Mrs Lovat,’ said the curate, returning softly from his errand. ‘Please continue your—your narrative, Mrs Lawford.’ ‘We are panting for the “devil,” my dear.’