'Not the faintest,' said May, whose courage by this time had pretty well returned. 'One can never account for Dick or his ways. He has the habit of running off when one least expects it, and never gives one a notion of when he will return.' 'That must be very inconvenient,' said Mrs. Ingram. 'I was hearing his praises sung the other night,' said Lady Northaw. 'Mrs. Rouge-croix says there is no man in the world so well able to put one up to a wrinkle or two.' 'That is not necessary in her case,' growled Sir Wolfrey, 'for she has quite enough of her own.' 'Well,' said Mrs. Ingram, rising, 'I cannot wait, even to hear the glorification of Lord Forestfield, as I have some calls to make. Recollect, May; you come to my box at the French plays, and we can afterwards go on to Lady Paribole's.' When her guests were gone, Lady Forestfield went to her boudoir, and seated herself at her little writing-table. Not that she had any intention of writing; her hand toyed with the pen, and wandered idly among the nicknacks with which the table was covered, as she thought of the occurrences of the morning, and tried to find a clue to the future in anything her husband had said or done. There had been nothing extraordinary, she thought; he had been quiet and reticent in his usual cool cynical way; and though she had winced at his speech about wifely duties and wifely sins, it was probably merely a conscience smart, as the observation was not pointedly addressed to her. Not another word had she heard from Gustave, who, had he found his suspicions correct, would undoubtedly have found some means of giving her farther warning. He must have been deceived; a man of Lord Forestfield's temper, with such knowledge rankling in his breast, could not have come quietly home, taken his luncheon with her in the presence of friends, and gone off to the country, as was his frequent custom, without making any sign. The danger was over, she thought; but the vow of resistance to temptation which she had made that morning should be steadfastly kept. The door opened, and a servant presented her with a card. It bore the words, 'Mr. Bristow, 96 Bedford-row.' She knew the name to be that of the family solicitor, a gentleman enjoying an exceptionally confidential position, and who was in the habit of dining with them once or twice in the season; and she gave orders for his admission. Mr. Bristow, a tall, white-haired, white-whiskered man, scrupulously clean and very neatly attired, appeared in the doorway, and made a grave bow. 'How do you do, Mr. Bristow?' said Lady Forestfield, rising from her chair. 'It is seldom you give us the pleasure of a visit, but I am very glad to see you.' 'I am come, Lady Forestfield,' said Mr. Bristow, 'on peculiarly painful business.' 'Painful business!' she echoed, with a sudden sinking at her heart. 'Very painful business,' he repeated. 'I have,' he added, drawing a paper from his pocket, 'to serve this paper upon you.'