She turned noiselessly away. The candle had guttered to extinction. The big glass reflected her, voluminous and wan, her dark-ringed eyes, full lips, rich, glossy hair, and rounded chin. ‘Yes, yes,’ it seemed to murmur mournfully. She turned away, and drawing stealthily near stooped once more quite low, and examined the face on the pillow with lynx-like concentration. And though every nerve revolted at the thought, she was finally convinced, unwillingly, but assuredly, that her husband was here. Indeed, if it were not so, how could she for a single moment have accepted the possibility that he was a stranger? He seemed to haunt, like a ghostly emanation, this strange, detestable face—as memory supplies the features concealed beneath a mask. The face was still and stony, like one dead or imaged in wax, yet beneath it dreams were passing—silly, ordinary Lawford dreams. She was almost alarmed at the terribly rancorous hatred she felt for the face... ‘It was just like Arthur to be so taken in!’ Then she too remembered Quain, and remembered also in the slowly paling dusk that the house would soon be stirring. She went out and noiselessly locked the door again. But it was useless to begin looking for Quain now—her husband had a good many dull books, most of them his ‘eccentric’ father’s. What must the servants be thinking? and what was all that talk about a mysterious visitor? She would have to question Ada—diplomatically. She returned to her room and sat down in an arm-chair, and waited. In sheer weariness she fell into a doze, and woke at the sound of dustpan and broom. She rang the bell, and asked for hot water, tea, and a basin of cornflour. ‘And please, Ada, be as quiet as possible over your work; your master is in a nice sleep, and must not be disturbed on any account. In the front bedroom.’ She looked up suddenly. ‘By the way, who let Dr Ferguson in last night?’ It was dangerous, but successful. ‘Dr Ferguson, ma’am? Oh, you mean... He _was_ in.’ Sheila smiled resignedly. ‘Was in? What do you mean, “was in”? And where were you, then?’ ‘I had been sent out to Critchett’s, the chemist’s.’ ‘Of course, of course. So cook let Dr Ferguson in, then? Why didn’t you say so before, Ada? And did you bring the medicine with you?’ ‘It was a packet in an envelope, ma’am. But Cook is sure she heard no knock—not while I was out. So Dr Ferguson must have come in quite unbeknown.’ ‘Well, really,’ said Sheila, ‘it seems very difficult to get at the truth sometimes. And when illness is in the house I cannot understand why there should be no one available to answer the door. You must have left it ajar, unsecured, when you went out. And pray, what if Dr Ferguson had been some common tramp? That would have been a nice thing.’