Yet that was a time of fierce disquiet with me. To settle down to any manner of work seemed impossible. Later in the day I went out into the garden, and the cool touch of the soft, damp wind upon my face tempted me past the line of trees which hemmed in our little demesne out into the muddy road and across to the broad expanse of green common which was really a part of the Deville home park. As I stood there, bareheaded, with the wind blowing through my hair and wrapping my skirts around me, I could see in the distance a man coming on horseback from the Court. I stood still and watched him. There was no mistaking man or horse--Bruce Deville on his great chestnut--though they were half a mile away. Then, as I stood there waiting for him, a sudden darkness came into the faintly sunlit air, a poisoned darkness--the poison of a hideous thought. I turned away and plunged into the plantation on my left, flying along the narrow footpath as though the thought had taken to itself the shape of some loathsome beast and was indeed pursuing me, close on my heels. In less than five minutes I was standing breathless before Adelaide Fortress. She was looking white and ill. When she came into the room she threw across at me a glance which was almost supplicatory. Her firm lips trembled a little. Her eyes were soft and full of invisible tears. “Is it bad news?” she faltered. “You have been running. Sit down.” I shook my head. “No. Another question, that is all. Mr. Deville?” She looked puzzled for a moment. Then she drew herself up and stood a little away from me. Her firm, dark eyebrows resolved themselves into a frown. Some subtle instinct, quick to fly backwards and forwards between us two, had helped her towards the meaning of my words. “Mr. Bromley Deville, Mr. Deville’s father, was my father’s oldest friend,” she said, slowly. “Bruce and I were children together, and except that I, of course, was five years the elder, we were great friends. Mr. Bromley Deville was my father’s executor, and since his death Bruce has taken his place.” A great relief had suddenly eased my heart. I drew a little breath, but she looked as if I had struck her a blow. “How is your father?” she asked. “Is there any news?” I nodded. “He is better; he is gone away.” She started. “Gone away? Where to?” she added, quickly. “To London, and from there he is going to the sea,” I told her. “He does not say where. He is sending a _locum tenens_. I do not think that he will return here at all. We want him to go straight to Eastminster.” She too seemed to share my relief, but my first thoughts were hers too. “What will that girl say?” “I cannot tell,” I answered; “she may be suspicious. At any rate we have a reprieve.” “You have not spoken--to him yet.” “No; he had gone when I returned last night. I was glad of it.”