She checked an impulse of laughter. She must keep hold on herself. Olifant came in the afternoon. She told him of a communication she had received from her bank to the effect that Alexis had placed a large sum of money to her account. But she did not tell him of her meeting with Lydia. “What’s to be done with the money? I don’t want it. It had better be retransferred.” “I’ll see what I can do,” said Olifant. He came back next morning. He had seen the manager of Triona’s bank. Nothing could be done. Alexis had drawn out his balance in cash and closed his account. “Let things be—at any rate for the present,” Olifant counselled. When he took his leave, he said, looking down on her from his lean height: “I do wish you would come to Medlow.” She knew that she was ill. She knew that she was looking ill. But her little frame shook with an impatient movement. “I’m going to stick it, Blaise. I’m going to stick it if I die for it.” “It’s magnificent, but it isn’t war—or anything else,” said he. * * * * * Then came Rowington. The last straw. The last straw, in the guise of an anxious, kindly, gold-spectacled, clean-shaven, florid-faced philanthropist. First he had asked over the telephone for Triona’s address. An urgent matter. Olivia replied that his address was secret. Would she kindly forward a letter? She replied that none of her husband’s letters were to be forwarded. Would Mrs. Triona see him, then? He would wait on her at any time convenient to her. She fixed the hour. He came on the stroke. Olivia, her heart cold, her brain numbed by a hundred apprehensions, was waiting for him in the drawing-room. Myra announced him. Olivia rose. “My dear Mrs. Triona,” said he, emphasizing the conventional handshake by laying his hand over hers and holding it, “where is that wonderful husband of yours?” “He’s gone abroad,” said Olivia. “He must come back,” said Rowington. “He has gone away for a long time on important business,” said Olivia, parrot-wise. She motioned him to a chair. They sat down. “I gathered something of the sort from his letter. Has he told you of certain dispositions?” She fenced. “I don’t quite follow you.” “This letter——?” He handed her the letter of instructions with regard to payment of royalties which he had received from Triona. She glanced through it. “That’s all right,” she said. He drew a breath of relief. “I’m glad you know. I had a sort of idea—anyhow, no matter how important his business is, it’s essential that he should come back at once.” “Why?” she asked. But she had a sickening prescience of the answer. The kindly gentleman passed his hand over his forehead. “It’s just a business complication, my dear Mrs. Triona,” he said. She rose. He too, courteously. “Is it to do with anything that happened on the night of your dinner-party?” “I’m afraid so.” “Colonel Onslow and Captain Wedderburn?” He met her eyes. “Yes,” said he.