She thrust the diploma into her husband's hand, and left it there, as she hurried into the dusk after Mr. Lucanaster, who had gone to search for his dogcart. 'Jerry will be fast asleep, I expect,' said Grace Arbuthnot regretfully, as she settled herself in the carriage beside Sir George, 'for I told Lesley to put him to bed early and give him some bromide. Oh! there is nothing the matter with him, George! Only, you know, he gets a little over-excited sometimes when he has a touch of fever, and bromide sets him off to sleep nicely. I am sorry Lesley couldn't come this afternoon--it must have been dull for her at home!' Dull, however, was the last word Lesley Drummond would have applied to that afternoon's experience. When she had followed Jack Raymond into the telegraph-office at the station, she had simply obeyed orders, not knowing in the least what was going to happen. He had, however. He had walked straight up to the clerk, who had turned deadly grey-green at his reappearance, and seized him by the throat; so that violence was over, and the offender in collapse on the stool behind him, by the time that Lesley had locked the door and looked round. 'Will you come here, please?' Jack Raymond said to her quietly. 'You'll find a pencil and paper, I expect, on the table--and where is the cipher telegram--oh, there!--that will do. Now, _baboo_, telegraph that right, will you? Miss Drummond, if you will look over and tick the letters off as he signals them, and _let me know when he makes a mistake_, I'll--I'll settle it!' He drew the revolver out of his pocket as he spoke, and stood to one side to let those two pass to the instrument. 'Of course, _baboo_,' he continued, 'the lady, who--unfortunately for you--can signal, could do it herself, but I prefer that you should do what you are told. Do you understand?' The greyness and the greenness became almost deathlike. And Lesley Drummond's colour forsook her also. Would it be a death-warrant she would have to give by looking up and saying 'Wrong'? It might be. His face--the face she was accustomed to see so careless--looked stern enough now even for that. Yet it might be needful. This treachery--there had not been time to exchange a single word about it--might mean so much. But _he_ would know how much, and so be able to judge. Yet as she bent over the telegram, ticking the--to her--unmeaning cipher off, letter by letter, she felt that her heart echoed that uneven shudder of the handles; and she felt that Jack Raymond's eyes upon her, as he watched for a sign, were like the eyes of fate. Would she have to give that sign? And if so, what would happen? There was no thought of pity _for the man_, in her mind, only a great dread, a horrible apprehension, of this responsibility _for herself_. Yet it must be so; she knew that, though the words, 'Don't--don't, please, don't--oh! don't be a fool,' came constantly to the very verge of her lips.