"Disguised as he was with his black
hair, his face stained with some dark juice, there was a look in him that
used to strike some chord in my memory. It lay in the eyes, I think.
You'll keep these facts sacred, Carr, for the parents' sake. They are
known only to four of us."

"Have you told your wife yet?" questioned Mr. Carr, recurring to a
different subject.

"No. I could not, somehow, whilst the child lay dead in the house. She
shall know it shortly."

"And what about dismissing the countess-dowager? You will do it?"

"I shall be only too thankful to do it. All my courage has come back to
me, thank Heaven!"

The Countess-Dowager of Kirton's reign was indeed over; never would he
allow her to disturb the peace of his house again. He might have to
pension her off, but that was a light matter. His intention was to speak
to her in a few days' time, allowing an interval to elapse after the
boy's death; but she forestalled the time herself, as Val was soon to
find.

Dinner that evening was a sad meal--sad and silent. The only one who did
justice to it was the countess-dowager--in a black gauze dress and white
crepe turban. Let what would betide, Lady Kirton never failed to enjoy
her dinner. She had a scheme in her head; it had been working there since
the day of her grandson's death; and when the servants withdrew, she
judged it expedient to disclose it to Hartledon, hoping to gain her
point, now that he was softened by sorrow.

"Hartledon, I want to talk to you," she began, critically tasting her
wine; "and I must request that you'll attend to me."

Anne looked up, wondering what was coming. She wore an evening dress of
black crepe, a jet necklace on her fair neck, jet bracelets on her arms:
mourning far deeper than the dowager's.

"Are you listening to me, Val?"

"I am quite ready," answered Val.

"I asked you, once before, to let me have Maude's children, and to allow
me a fair income with them. Had you done so, this dreadful misfortune
would not have overtaken your house: for it stands to reason that if Lord
Elster had been living somewhere else with me, he could not have caught
scarlet-fever in London."

"We never thought he did catch it," returned Hartledon. "It was not
prevalent at the time; and, strange to say, none of the other children
took it, nor any one else in the house."

"Then what gave it him?" sharply uttered the dowager.

What Val answered was spoken in a low tone, and she caught one wor