At the elder woman’s suggestion, the fear gripped her with dreadful suddenness. There had not yet been time for thought of such a possibility. If he had lied about fighting for Polish freedom, what truth was there in his perfervid declaration of the severance of his life from hers? She had been right in her analysis of his character. The curtain down on whatever comedy he might be now enacting, he would present himself unexpectedly before her with specious explanations of the past, and another glittering scenario of illusion. And with his reappearance would come exposure. She had pledged her word to Rowington. She seized Myra by the wrist. “Do you think he will?” “You are afraid,” said Myra. “Yes. Dreadfully afraid.” “I don’t think you need be,” said Myra. Olivia flung away. “You take his part, just like Major Olifant. Neither of you seem to understand.” She turned. “Don’t you see the horror of it?” “I’ve seen lots of horrors in my time,” replied Myra placidly. “But I shan’t see this one. He’s gone for good, dearie. You may be sure of that.” “I wish I could think so,” said Olivia. It was nearly lunch time. Myra went out and returned with a can of hot water. “You’ll not see him so long as I’m about to look after you,” she remarked. And Olivia laughed at the dragon of her childhood. Some mornings afterwards, Myra came to her mistress. “If it’s convenient to you, I should like a few days’ leave. I’ve had a letter.” “Nothing serious, I hope?” asked Olivia, whose thoughts flew to the madman in the County Asylum. “I don’t know,” said Myra. “Can I go?” “Of course,” said Olivia. So Myra packed her worn valise and left Medlow by the first available train. But the Asylum was not her destination. The next day saw her seeking admittance to University College Hospital, London. CHAPTER XXII WHEN Triona after many dim day-dreams and relapses into nothingness, at last recovered consciousness, he found himself in a narrow sort of cubicle, staring upwards at a mile away ceiling. He was tightly bound, body and legs. He had a vague memory of a super-juggernaut of a thing killing him; therefore he sagely concluded that he was dead and this was the next world. It occurred to him that the next world had been singularly over-rated, being devoid of any interest for an intelligent being. Later, when the familiar figure of a nurse popped round the screen, he recognized, with some relief, the old universe. He was alive; but where he was, he had no notion. Only gradually did he learn what had befallen him; that he had laid for weeks unconscious; that he had a broken thigh and crushed ribs; that most of the time he had hovered between life and death; that even now he was a very sick man who must lie quiet and do exactly what nurses and doctors told him. This sufficed for a time, while his brain still worked dully. But soon there came a morning when all the memories surged back. He questioned the nurse: