She stretched her hand to the bell-rope, and the parson upon an impulse of weakness for which he immediately chided himself, stretched out his own to arrest her. But David, without looking up from his writing, said gently: “Let her call up whom she will.” And Lady Lochore demanded Mrs. Nutmeg’s appearance. “My friends,” she added, after a spell of brooding silence, once more addressing her brother, “have been so summarily turned out of this house that their immediate evidence is unobtainable. A letter to Bath, however, would produce their attendance or their answer by writing if——” But at this point Margery knocked at the door. Slowly Sir David looked up: “I may as well tell you at once,” said he, “that were you to fetch witnesses from the four corners of the globe, there is but one person’s word which I would be willing to take in this matter—and hers I do not intend to ask for.” The rector gazed in astonishment upon the determined speaker. This confidence, he thought, showed almost like a new phase of eccentricity; it was as exaggerated in its way as the previous universal distrust of humanity and more likely to be followed by a reaction. Sir David had but shortly before informed him that since the moment when he had received the sleeping draught from Ellinor’s hand, he had not met her. His attitude seemed the more inexplicable. But Dr. Tutterville was now all anxious to clear up this strange matter; for, since Lady Lochore’s excited entrance upon the scene, he had become convinced that Ellinor was the victim of some cunning conspiracy, and was increasingly ashamed of his own previous misgivings. “Nay, David,” he cried, interposing sudden authority, “that is not fair to Mrs. Marvel. She must have the opportunity of self-vindication; she must be urged to speak that word which we indeed do not need, but without which, slanderous tongues will continue to wag. See, yonder she goes,” he added, pointing through the window. David then, without a word, rose and went to the open casement; he beckoned and called: “Ellinor! Can you come to me?” Margery Nutmeg took a few humble steps aside and remained in a shadowy corner. CHAPTER XVIII GONE LIKE A DREAM ... My sweet dream Fell into nothing. Ah, my sighs, my tears, My clenched hands;—for, lo! the poppies hung Dew-dabbled on their stalk, the ousel sung A heavy ditty, and the sullen day Had chidden herald Hesperus away With leaden looks. —KEATS (_Endymion_). Ellinor entered the room. “The heartless wretch!” thought Lady Lochore, with the marvellous inconsequence of hatred, “her old father lying dead and she in all these colours!”