“Mrs. March,” he began, speaking with strange dignity and pain. “I have come back to implore your pardon. I lied to you. We shall never see each other again, and it was dastardly in me to try to shield myself from the horrible duty which as one of your oldest friends I owe you—the last thing, also, that I can ever do for you. You are a true woman and a great soul. Be great enough to face what I have now to tell you. I do know Pablo Mendes—and if you have not told any of your friends about your unspeakably deplorable marriage, for God’s sake do not tell them. You will understand why I say this, and bless me for saying it soon—you will thank me until your dying day. Your secret is, of course, sacred with me. Mrs. March, brace yourself now—life is a battle for us all—and victory is not for them that fight, but for them that bear—so hear me. You will never see your husband again. Give me your hand—so—are you ill? Courage now for a moment. Mendes is dead. I—Somebody, in there! Quick! Mrs. March has fainted!” Not waiting to help carry her in, he bade Baggs tell Mr. Allyne and Mr. Travers to join him in town at once, and seeing that servants were already gone to fetch Lady Poynter, he sped along the avenue to overtake Miss Mettleby, whose skirts he saw through the shrubbery at some distance from the terrace. In ten minutes they were aboard the train. CHAPTER XI At about eight o’clock that evening Fair, who had dined with Allyne and Travers at the club, reached his own door and, letting himself in, waited for their arrival in the small smoking-room on the first floor of the deserted and gloomy mansion. As he opened the street door he thought that he heard hasty footsteps on one of the upper stories, but soon he was able to rid himself of the unpleasant fancy, and sat quietly reading until his friends should come. This they did in a very few minutes—considerably to his relief—and the three groped their way up the dark stairs and along the passage to the library, which room Fair told them was to be the scene of their conference. As they peered in at the door the black woodwork of the library made the gloom seem greater than in the passage, and as they hesitated Fair said: “Strike a match, will you, Travers?” “Right you are—if I don’t break my neck first,” answered Travers, finally managing to get the match lighted and holding it high over his head. “There we are,” said Fair. “Now I can find the electric light key.” He found it and turned on the current, flooding the room with light. The sudden translation from total darkness to brilliant light, and the general feeling of mystery and stealth with which the house seemed to be filled, gave all of the men an uncomfortable sense of being engaged upon uncanny business.