ssible. As he hurried from the
drawing-room he heard Mrs. Henson crooning and muttering, he saw the
vacant glare in her eyes, and vaguely wondered how soon he should have
another patient here.

Reginald Henson sat propped up in his bed, white and exhausted. Beyond
doubt he had had a terrible shock and fright, and the droop of his
eyelids told of shattered nerves. There was a thick white bandage round
his throat, his left shoulder was strapped tightly. He spoke with
difficulty.

"Do we feel any better this morning?" Walker asked, cheerfully.

"No, we don't," said Henson, with a total absence of his usual
graciousness of manner. "We feel confoundedly weak, and sick, and dizzy.
Every time I drop off to sleep I wake with a start and a feeling that
that infernal dog is smothering me. Has the brute been shot yet?"

"I don't fancy so; in fact, he is still at his post upstairs, and
therefore--"

"Therefore you have not seen the body of my poor dear cousin?"

"Otherwise I could have given no certificate," Walker said, with dignity.
"If I have satisfied myself, sir, and the requirements of the law, why,
then, everybody is satisfied. I _have_ seen the body."

Technically the little doctor spoke the truth. Henson muttered
something that sounded like an apology. Walker smiled graciously and
suggested that rest and a plain diet were all that his patient needed.
Rest was the great thing. The bandages need not be removed for a day or
two, at the expiration of which time he would look in again. Once the
road was reached in safety Walker took off his hat and wiped the beads
from his forehead.

"What a house," he muttered. "What a life to lead. Thank goodness I need
not go there again before Saturday. If anybody were to offer me a small
glass of brandy with a little soda now, I should feel tempted to break
through my rule and drink it."

Meanwhile the long terror of the day dragged on inside the house. The
servants crept about the place on tiptoe, the hideous bell clanged out,
Mrs. Henson paced wearily up and down the drawing-room, singing and
muttering to herself, until Enid was fain to fly or break down and yell
hysterically. It was one of Margaret Henson's worst days.

The death of Christiana seemed to affect her terribly. Enid watched her
in terror. More than once she was fearful that the frail thread would
snap--the last faint glimmer of reason go out for ever. And yet it would
be madness to tell Margaret Henson the truth