William shut the door and followed her. She had dropped into a chair and lay there, half reclining, her arm across the back and her face hidden on it. Her husband stood looking down at her in silence for a moment; then he turned without a word and went into the dining-room, poured some brandy into a glass, and brought it. “Drink this!” he said peremptorily. She lifted the glass slowly, and, without raising her eyes, tasted the liquor and then thrust it aside. “I know what you think!” she said in a low voice. “It isn’t true--I’ve done nothing--nothing at all!” His face hardened. “Why do you say that, Fanchon? I haven’t accused you.” She turned with a gesture of impatience. “I know they have--your father and your mother!” William, who had taken the glass from her, set it down on the table. “You’re wet through,” he said coldly. “Go up-stairs and change. You can talk afterward--if you want to.” “I don’t care if I’m wet!” she answered a little wildly. “I’d rather bear wet than your face!” “I’m sorry my face is so unbearable. I had no thought when I saw you but anxiety. There’s been an accident. You haven’t even told me whether you’re hurt!” “It wasn’t an accident,” said Fanchon. “The horse got down in the stream and wallowed. I had to get off to save myself, and when he came out he ran off.” William lifted his eyes reluctantly to hers. “That horse has just come in, Fanchon. I got a telephone as you came up the porch steps.” She did not seem to grasp the significance of this. She put up a wandering hand and pushed back her damp hair. “I can’t help it!” she said sharply. “It’s so--I never would have got here but for a motor. Some people--perfect strangers, too--were coming this way, and they brought me. We came faster than any horse could go.” “Where were you? Where did the horse roll?” “At Fanshawe’s Creek--you know, half-way to the Mountain Inn.” William turned abruptly and walked across the room and back again. “That wouldn’t take an hour and a half for a horse,” he remarked dryly. “It’s one o’clock, Fanchon.” A flame of red shot up in her white cheeks. “I think he got into the water at about eleven o’clock. I tried to make him ford the stream, and he--he just got down and wallowed in the water. I had to get off.” “You went out just after luncheon--while mother was at lunch, in fact--and you were coming home on those lonely roads at eleven o’clock at night, alone?” She sat up in her chair at that, her flushed face turned fully toward him, and something like a flame kindling in her fawn-like eyes. “Of course your mother told you!” “Told me what?” “About my talk with Corwin in the lane.” William stared at her. “My mother told me nothing. I didn’t mean to tell you, I didn’t mean to say anything,” he added grimly; “but since you’ve said so much, I will. I heard from father that Corwin followed you out on the turnpike to-day--to the edification of the town! Was he with you at the creek?”