And Jean? Gazing up into his haggard face she felt a mingled rush of intense relief and deep, exultant love and tenderness. It moved her to the soul to think that the postponement of their marriage could make him look as he was looking now. But she was quickly, painfully, undeceived. “A man came to see me at the works this morning to tell me that there seems to be some doubt as to the cause of Emily’s death.” Her face filled with deep surprise and dismay, but no suspicion of what his words implied crossed her mind. All she did understand was that what had happened had given this man who was so entirely her own, a terrible shock. “Why should that make any difference to our being married to-morrow morning?” she asked in a low voice. “Because neither your aunt nor your uncle would wish you to be married to a man suspected of murder.” He spoke with harsh directness. “Murder?” Jean Bower’s eyes flashed. She did not shrink, as he had thought she would do; instead she threw herself on his breast and pressed close up to him, putting her arms round his neck. “If that is true, but I don’t believe it is true, then I want to marry you at once—to-day rather than to-morrow, Harry. Oh, my love, my own dear love, don’t look at me like that!” His arms hungrily enfolded her, but he shook his head determinedly. “Till the whole thing is cleared up, we’ve got to face this trouble separately.” “No! No! _No!_” she exclaimed, looking up eagerly, piteously, into his drawn face. “Not separately, but together, Harry.” And it was he, not she, who broke down as she pressed up closer to him, for, to her agonized distress, he pushed her away and broke into short, gasping, hard sobs. “I can’t come back to the house,” he said at last. “Tell your uncle I’ll meet him at the station, my darling.” She saw he was making a great effort over himself, and very gallantly she “played up.” “All right, I’ll tell him. But Harry?” “Yes?” he said listlessly. “You’ll go now and get something to eat. Promise?” and for the first time her lips quivered. “I promise.” Again he took her in his arms. Their lips met and clung together. At last, “Oh, Jean,” he whispered brokenly, “do you think we shall ever be happy again?” “Of course we shall,” she said confidently. And then she walked with him through the wintry, bare garden to the field where there was a gate which gave into the road leading to Grendon. There they did not kiss again. They only shook hands quietly. CHAPTER VIII The scene shifts to London—London, so indifferent, so cruel, so drab a city to those whom she is stranger, not mother. Harry Garlett and Dr. Maclean had gone to a city hotel where they felt sure that they would run little risk of meeting any one from their part of the world.