Janet returned to the room. Thomas was leaning back in his chair, his face ghastly, his hands fallen, prostrate altogether from the effects of the agony. Things were coming into her mind one by one: how much time Thomas had spent in his own room of late; how seldom, comparatively speaking, he went to the Bank; how often he had the brougham, instead of walking, when he did go to it. Once--why, it was only this very last Sunday!--he had not gone near church all day long. Janet's fears grew into certainties. She took a chair, drawing it nearer to Thomas. Not speaking of her fears, but asking him in a soothing tone how he felt, and what had caused his illness. "Have you had the same pain before?" she continued. "Several times," he answered. "But it has been worse to-night than I have previously felt it. Janet, I fear it may be the forerunner of my call. I did not think to leave you so soon." Except that Janet's face went almost as pale as his, and that her fingers entwined themselves together so tightly as to cause pain, there was no outward sign of the grief that laid hold of her heart. "Thomas, what is the complaint that you are fearing?" she asked, after a pause. "The same that--that----" "That my mother had," he quietly answered, speaking the words that Janet would not speak. "It may not be so," gasped Janet. "True. But I think it is." "Why have you never spoken of this?" "Because, until to-night, I have doubted whether it was so, or not. A suspicion, that it might be so, certainly was upon me: but it amounted to no more than suspicion. At times, when I feel quite well, I argue that I must be wrong." "Have you consulted Mr. Snow?" "I am going to do so now. I have desired Bexley to send for him." "It should have been done before, Thomas." "Why? If it is as I suspect, neither Snow nor all his brethren can save me."