Why was she reflecting Henry, she asked herself. Did she hope to accomplish with Jim what Henry last night had done with her? "Hush, hush! You must not talk like that," Jim entreated. Her strength was beginning to fail her. Jim placed her gently in a chair. "Jim, can’t you help? Can’t you think of some way to help us all?" "What money I have wouldn’t be a drop in the bucket. But you can have it." He added, quietly, "I’m leaving England—don’t question me why—but I’m going." Jim was going. He meant to sacrifice himself in any case to his great love. If he had only gone before this discovery had been made—the unspoken thought that had been struggling at the back of her subconsciousness began to form words that, if she dared, would tempt him to a greater sacrifice. Dare she go on? Even as she hesitated Henry might be—almost she prayed that last night’s intervention had been denied her. Knowing what she did, she must try to save her son—save her house. She drew a quick breath. She rose and crossed to Jim, who was leaning against the mantel; his figure drooped inert and helpless, hers grew stronger and more rigid until she stood over him like a menacing figure of fate. She took both of his unresisting hands in hers. There was no mistaking the meaning of her words. "Jim," she whispered. "I know you must go. I’ve known it for days. As it must be, can’t you think of some way to help—us"—she hesitated on the word. "Can’t you make a greater sacrifice? You are the only one who can save us from ruin and dishonor. Will you?" In silence he looked into her unflinching eyes. From her feverish brain to his strained sensibilities came the unmistakable message. Was his love great enough to serve to this end—to make this supreme immolation? He threw back his head and closed his eyes. The seconds slipped by—neither relaxed the hold each had on the other. Yes, to serve—to give—that was love. Renunciation would mean the salvation of so many—to Di, and the life of the delicate old man so closely entwined with hers. The honor of his house—this proud old woman! Through Henry, peace at least to Diana. What mattered his life now—why not? But what he did must be done at once, he could brook no delay. Again he looked deep into his aunt’s eyes. "Yes," he said, "I’ll do it. It’s the only way—the only way." "God bless you!—God bless—" she sobbed, as she clung to his hand. But Jim evaded all further words. "Leave me. Later I’ll see Henry." The dressing-bell sounded. He led her to the door, opened it, and watched her pass down the long corridor with its portraits of the dead Wynnegates lining the walls. But Jim made no effort to obey the summons of the bell. He returned to the prayer-closet; he wanted to be alone. In his dressing-room Henry received two messages. One was from his mother, it said, "Courage"; the other note read: "Come to the prayer-closet at ten.—Jim."