houghtful. Meanwhile
Beatrice found herself alone with the dead body of her father. He was
only partially undressed; he lay on the bed as if he had been overcome
with a sudden illness or fatigue. The handsome boyish features were
quite composed; there was a smile on the lips, and yet the expression on
the face was one of pain. Sir Charles appeared to have died as he had
lived--gay, careless, and easy to the last. Always neat, he had placed
his studs and tie on the dressing-table; by them stood a little pile of
letters which had evidently come by a recent post. They had been
carefully cut open with a penknife, so that Beatrice could see they had
been read.

There were tears in the girl's eyes now, for Beatrice recalled the time
when Sir Charles had been a good father to her in the days before he had
dissipated his fortune and started out with the intention of winning it
back in the city. Those had been happy hours, Beatrice reflected.

There was nothing further in the room to call for notice. On the
carpet, in contrast to the crimson ground, lay what looked like a
telegram. It was half folded, but there was no mistaking the grey paper.
If there was anything wrong here, perhaps the telegram would throw a
light on it. Beatrice picked up the message and flattened it on her
hand. Then she read it with a puzzled face. Suddenly a flash of
illumination came upon her. Her hand clenched the paper passionately.

"Is it possible," she muttered, "that he could have known? And yet the
date and the day! Why, that coward _must_ have known all the time."

A glance at the dead, placid face there recalled Beatrice to herself.
Hastily she thrust the message in her corsage and quietly left the room.
Some time had elapsed since Beatrice entered the hotel, but as yet the
man she called her husband had not returned. It seemed strange, but
Beatrice said nothing. She stood regarding her wedding finery with some
feeling of disgust.

"I must have a room somewhere and change," she said; "it seems horrible
to be walking about like this when my father is lying dead upstairs.
Mark, my woman is here somewhere. Will you try and find her and send her
to Lady Rashborough for something black and quite plain? Meanwhile, I'll
go to a bedroom and get some of this finery off. The mere touch of it
fills me with loathing."

Beatrice's maid was discovered at length, and despatched in hot haste to
Lady Rashborough's. Beatrice had scarcely entered before Step