ome here directly he
gets my message. I'm sorry to keep you up, but I should like you to let
him in."

"Certainly, my lady," said Murgatroyd.

"I shall be waiting for him in the drawing-room. Bring me up some
camomile tea, will you? And put out a cigar and whisky and Perrier for
Sir Seymour."

"Yes, my lady."

"That's all."

Murgatroyd stood back to let her pass out of the room. She thought at
that moment there was something sympathetic in his face.

"I believe he's rather devoted to me, and to Seymour too," she said to
herself as she went upstairs. "I don't think he'll say anything to the
others. Not that it matters if he does!"

Nevertheless she felt oddly shy about Seymour coming to her very late at
night, and wondered what Murgatroyd thought of that long friendship.
No doubt he knew, no doubt all the servants knew, how devoted to her
Seymour was.

She went into the drawing-room and sat down by the fire, and very soon
Murgatroyd brought in the camomile tea. Then he placed on a side table a
box of cigars, whisky and Perrier water, and went out.

The clock chimed the quarter before ten.

Camomile tea is generally supposed to be good for the nerves. That was
why Lady Sellingworth had ordered it; that was why she drank it now. For
now she was beginning to feel horribly nervous, and the feeling seemed
to increase in her with every passing moment. It was dreadful waiting
for Seymour like this. She felt all her courage and determination oozing
away. When Beryl had been there, and that strange and abrupt decision
had been come to, Lady Sellingworth had felt almost glad. Seymour would
know what Beryl knew, the worst and perhaps the best, of his old friend.
And there was no one else she could go to. Seymour was an old soldier, a
thorough man of the world, absolutely discreet, with a silent tongue and
proved courage and coolness. No one surely existed more fitted to deal
drastically with a scoundrel than he. Lady Sellingworth had no idea what
he would do. But he would surely find a way to get rid of Arabian, to
"drive" him, as Beryl had put it, out of the girl's life for ever.
Yes, he would find a way. Lady Sellingworth felt positive of that, and,
feeling thus positive, she realized how absolutely she trusted Seymour,
trusted his heart, his brain, his whole character.

Nevertheless she looked again and again at the clock, and began to feel
almost sick with anxiety.

The thought of confession had scarcely frighte