What had they heard? He did not know--at least he was sure he did not know it all. He saw something of it in Leigh’s white face to-night. The boy was fond of Fanchon. William felt relief to think that at least one member of his family liked her. He watched the clock until the hands indicated midnight. Where could she be? He walked the floor again. Unobserved, he could give way to his agony of mind. Had there been an accident? Had Fanchon been hurt? The suspense was fast becoming a deep and keen agony. He was shaken. He knew that his thoughts had wandered to Virginia, to the peace he might have had. Had Fanchon seen it? Was she tormenting him in a wild fit of jealousy, or--intolerable and monstrous thought!--his wife in flight with a man who looked to him to be no more than a common gamester? How still it was! Through the open window the soft night air poured in; and now it had a difference, a perceptible quickening, the keenness of the morning. It was nearly one o’clock. He flung himself into a chair and waited, burying his head in his hands. He tried to think coherently, but he could not. Then a thrill ran through him as the telephone-bell rang at his elbow. He snatched up the receiver. A man’s voice called for Mr. William Carter--a gruff, half-drowsy negro voice. “Yes, yes! What is it?” he questioned. “De boss tol’ me to watch out fo’ dat horse Miz Carter hired, suh. I’s been up all night--dat horse jes’ come in dis minute. He’s drippin’, an’ he ain’t got no rider, suh.” William dropped the receiver and stood motionless, as if turned to stone. Good God, how he had wronged her! There had been an accident! A vision of Fanchon lying by the wayside, her lovely face cold in the moonlight, her helpless, pretty, idle hands flung out, pierced his heart. He groaned aloud. Then his sickened brain cleared and he roused himself. He must get help, hire a motor, and go out to search. He raised his head sharply. His strained ear caught a sound at the front door. He crossed the room almost at a stride, switched on the light in the hall, threw back his father’s elaborate chains and bolts with a shaking hand, and flung the door open. On the threshold, deadly pale and dripping wet, stood his wife. “Fanchon!” His first impulse of wild relief was lost in another and a stronger feeling. The look on her face checked the words on his lips. She came in slowly, reluctantly, putting out a small, groping hand. As the light from the hall lamp fell full upon her, he saw that she had lost her hat, and that her pretty hair clung in wet curls to her forehead. All the gaiety and frivolity of that Parisian habit was gone. It was torn and muddy and wet. But she did not go to him, she did not exclaim that she had been hurt and half drowned. She walked past him, a little unsteadily, and went into the library.