Gertrude closed her eyes, but she did not faint. She remained standing, while one hand rested on the table for support. Yes, she had known it; had stood by powerless, paralysed, while this thing approached; had seen it even as Cassandra saw from afar the horror which she had been unable to avert. Opening her eyes, she met the gaze, grieved, pitiful, indignant, of her companion. "What is to be done?" Her lips framed the words with difficulty. A pause; then he said-- "I cannot hold out much hope. But will you come with me to--to--his house and make inquiries?" She bowed her head, and gathering herself together, led the way from the room. The snow was falling thick and fast as they emerged from the house, and Lord Watergate handed her into his brougham. It had grown very dark, and the wind had risen. "The Sycamores," said Lord Watergate to his coachman, as he took his seat by Gertrude, and drew the fur about her knees. Mrs. Maryon, watching from the shop window, shrugged her shoulders. "Who would have thought it? But you never can tell. And that Phyllis! It's twice I've seen her with the fair-haired gentleman, with his beard cut like a foreigner's. It's what you'd expect from her, poor creature--but Gertrude!" "They have got the rooms on lease," grumbled Mr. Maryon, from among his pestles and mortars. [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER XIX. THE SYCAMORES. _How the world is made for each of us! How all we perceive and know in it Tends to some moment's product thus, When a soul declares itself--to wit, By its fruit the thing it does!_ ROBERT BROWNING. The carriage rolled on its way through the snow to St. John's Wood, while its two occupants sat side by side in silence. Now that they had set out, each felt the hopelessness of the errand on which they were bound, to which only that first stifling moment of horror, that absolute need of action, had prompted them. The brougham stopped in the road before the gate of The Sycamores. "We had better walk up the drive," said Lord Watergate, and opened the carriage door. By this time the snow lay deep on the road and the roofs of the houses; the trees looked mere blotches of greyish-white, seen through the rapid whirl of falling flakes, which it made one giddy to contemplate. "A terrible night for a journey," thought Lord Watergate, as he opened the big gate; but he said nothing, fearing to arouse false hopes in the breast of his companion. They wound together up the drive, the dark mass of the house partly hidden by the curving, laurel-lined path, and further obscured by the veil of falling snow. Then, suddenly, something pierced through Gertrude's numbness; she stopped short. "Look!" she cried, beneath her breath.