ugh the window, "undo the door!"

But Mrs. Phillimore made no answer. When at last the door was opened she
was discovered half asleep in a corner. Her hair was in some disorder,
and her cheeks no longer preserved that even colouring which is a result
of the artistic use of the rouge-pot. Her head was thrown back, and she
was apparently asleep. Hester stifled a sob. She took her mother by the
arm, and shook her.

Mrs. Phillimore sat up and smiled a sleepy smile. She made a few
incoherent remarks. They helped her into the house and into an
easy-chair, where she promptly turned her face towards the cushions and
resumed her slumber. Sir Leslie moved towards the door, then hesitated.

"Miss Phillimore," he said, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am that this
should have happened."

She was on her knees before her mother. She turned and rose slowly to
her feet. Sir Leslie never quite forgot her gesture as she motioned him
towards the door. It was one of the most uncomfortable moments of his
life.

"I am afraid--"

She did not speak a word, yet Sir Leslie obeyed what seemed to him more
eloquent than words. He turned and left the room and the house. Without
any change in her tense expression she waited until she heard him go.
Then she sank upon her knees on the hearthrug, and hid her face in her
hands.

CHAPTER X

THE MAN WITH A MOTIVE

Mannering sat alone in the shade of his cedar tree. He had walked in his
rose-garden amongst a wilderness of drooping blossoms, for the season of
roses was gone. He had crossed the marshland seawards, only to find a
little crowd of holiday-makers in possession of the golf links and the
green tufted stretch of sandy shore. The day had been long, almost
irksome. A fit of restlessness had driven him from his study. He seemed
to have lost all power of concentration. For once his brain had failed
him. The shadowy companions who stood ever between him and solitude
remained uninvoked. His cigar had burnt out between his fingers. He threw
it impatiently away. These were the days, the hours he dreaded.

Clara came down the garden from the house, and seeing him, crossed the
lawn and sat down beside him.

"Why, my dear uncle," she exclaimed, "you look almost as dull as I feel!
Let us be miserable together!"

"With all my heart," he answered. "Whilst we are about it, can we invent
a cause?"

"Invent!" she repeated. "I do not think we need either of us look very
far. Every one seems to