"Lord Hartmore may come in, if you are not quick," she said. "He was in the breakfast-room when the servant brought me your card and message. Please tell what you have got to say at once--I can bear a shock, but he cannot." Poor wife! poor mother! Her eyes looked at me with dumb entreaty, while her lips uttered the words of courage. "Women like you, Lady Hartmore," I could not help uttering, impulsively, "are always brave. It is my terrible mission to inflict a great blow upon you--your son has met with an accident." "Is he dead?" she asked. She came close to me as she spoke, her voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. [Illustration: "'IS HE DEAD?' SHE ASKED."] "He is dead," I replied, instantly; "sit down." I motioned her to a chair--she obeyed me. "Lock the door," she said; "Lord Hartmore must not--must not know of this--quite yet." I did what she asked me, and then went and stood with my back to her in one of the windows. As I did so I felt in my pocket for the letter which Brabazon was to have given me. It was not there. I then remembered that in the excitement of my getting off in time to catch the train we must both have forgotten it. After a time Lady Hartmore's voice, sounding hollow and low, reached my ears. "Tell me the particulars," she said. I did so. I sat down near her and told them as briefly as possible. She listened attentively. When I had finished she said, in a puzzled tone:-- "I cannot account for the sudden giddiness. Arthur always had excellent health." Then she looked me full in the face. "Do you believe the story, Dr. Halifax?" I thought for a moment, then I said, emphatically:-- "Yes, I believe it." She did not speak at all for the best part of a moment. Then she gave a heavy sigh. "After all," she said, "the thing that affects us is the death. He is dead. The inevitable has overtaken him. It scarcely matters how it happened--at least not now--not to me." "Pardon me," I interrupted, "it matters a great deal how it happened. The cause of your son's death will be a question of anxious investigation--of the gravest and most searching inquiries. I fully believe the story which Carleton told us last night, but there are others who will--who must--suspect him of foul play. Is it possible, Lady Hartmore--is it in any way within the province of woman, so completely to forget herself in this moment of terrible anguish, as to live for another? You can do nothing now for the dead, but you can do much, very much, for the living." "You mean for my husband?" she inquired.