?"

"No. I felt rather nervous. It's nothing," Sophy said hurriedly. "What
o'clock is it?"

"Just seven, m'm. Mr. Gaynor sent me to you. I was against it, knowing
that you'd been out last night--but now I'm sure I'm thankful I did
come. It's about the Master, m'm. He's very bad, Mr. Gaynor says. He'd
like to speak with you, m'm, Mr. Gaynor would. But let me bring you a
cup of tea first, m'm--please."

"Yes, bring me some tea. Tell Gaynor I will see him after I have had
some tea."

Sophy lay back on the couch. Could it be that Cecil was going to die?
She thought: "I am quite honest with myself. I don't try to deceive
myself. I hope that he will die. Yes--quickly. But what is curious is
that this wish doesn't shock me--that other part of me, that doesn't
exactly wish it. I can see that it would be right not to wish it, but I
_do_ wish it."

Tilda came back with the tea in a few moments. The strong stimulant
brought some colour to Sophy's lips--steadied her. When she had drunk
it, she said:

"Now send Gaynor to me."

Gaynor was at the door within two moments. Tilda held it open for him
rather grudgingly. She thought that her lady's indisposition was of far
graver import than that of Gaynor's master.

"Shut the door, Tilda--and don't come back until I ring," said Sophy. "I
wish to speak to Gaynor alone."

The man stood near the door, waiting.

"Is Mr. Chesney ill again?" asked Sophy.

"Very ill, indeed, madam--in my opinion."

"Dangerously?"

"I can't say, madam. I think it will be dangerous if it's allowed to go
on."

"How do you mean 'allowed to go on'?"

"If a doctor isn't consulted, madam."

"But you know Mr. Chesney's dislike of doctors."

"Yes, madam; but in this instance it seemed to me that it would be
better not to regard it."

"Does Mr. Chesney himself wish it?"

"Mr. Chesney is unconscious, madam."

Sophy sat up, supporting herself by one arm along the back of the couch.
Her great, dark, passionately tired eyes, and the small, composed,
neutral-tinted eyes of the valet met in a look of questioning on her
part, of quiet but noncommittal decision on his.

"Unconscious? How? A heavy sleep?"

"No, madam; more a state of syncope, I should say."

"Since when?"

"He sank into it about six o'clock this morning. He was very bad last
night, madam--delirious. I had some difficulty in quieting him."

Sophy looked at him steadily, in silence. Then she said:

"Did you give him some of that