‘But I—_I_ can see in the dark,’ whispered Lawford, as if at a cue, turning with an inscrutable smile to the fire. The vicar came again, wrapped up in a little tight grey great-coat, and a white silk muffler. He looked up unflinching into Lawford’s face, and tears stood in his eyes. ‘Patience, patience, my dear fellow,’ he repeated gravely, squeezing his hand. ‘And rest, complete rest, is imperative. Just till the first thing to-morrow. And till then,’ he turned to Mrs Lawford, where she stood looking in at the doorway, ‘oh yes, complete quiet; and caution!’ Mrs Lawford let him out. He shook his head once or twice, holding her fingers. ‘Oh yes,’ he whispered, ‘it is your husband, not the smallest doubt. I tried: for _myself_. But something—something has happened. Don’t fret him now. Have patience. Oh yes, it is incredible... the change! But there, the very first thing to-morrow.’ She closed the door gently after him, and stepping softly back to the dining-room, peered in. Her husband’s back was turned, but he could see her in the looking-glass, stooping a little, with set face watching him, in the silvery stillness. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘is the old—’ he doggedly met the fixed eyes facing him there, ‘is our old friend gone?’ ‘Yes,’ said Sheila, ‘he’s gone.’ Lawford sighed and turned round. ‘It’s useless talking now, Sheila. No more questions. I cannot tell you how tired I am. And my head—’ ‘What is wrong with your head?’ inquired his wife discreetly. The haggard face turned gravely and patiently. ‘Only one of my old headaches,’ he smiled, ‘my old bilious headaches—the hereditary Lawford variety.’ But his voice fell low again. ‘We must get to bed.’ With a rather pretty and childish movement, Sheila gently drew her hands across her silk skirts. ‘Yes, dear,’ she said, ‘I have made up a bed for you in the large spare room. It is thoroughly aired.’ She came softly in, hastened over to a closed work-table that stood under the curtains, and opened it. Lawford watched her, utterly expressionless, utterly motionless. He opened his mouth and shut it again, still watching his wife as she stooped with ridiculously too busy fingers, searching through her coloured silks. Again he opened his mouth. ‘Yes,’ he said, and stalked slowly towards the door. But there he paused. ‘God knows,’ he said, strangely and meekly, ‘I am sorry, sorry for all this. You will forgive me, Sheila?’ She looked up swiftly. ‘It’s very tiresome, I can’t find anywhere,’ she murmured, ‘I can’t find anywhere the—the little red box key.’ Lawford’s cheek turned more sallow than ever. ‘You are only pretending to look for it,’ he said, ‘to try me. We both know perfectly well the lock is broken. Ada broke it.’