rest. Then like a flash of
lightning across the darkness came the thought of Martin. What had he
said? "If anything happened to his father--"

The terror of that made her heart stop beating. She wanted instantly to
go to him and see what he was doing. She even rose from her bed,
stumbled in the darkness towards her dressing-table, then remembered
where she was and what time and went back and sat upon her bed.

She sat there, her fingers tightly pressed together, staring in front
of her until the morning came. She felt at her heart a foreboding worse
than any pain that she had ever known. She determined that, directly
after breakfast, whatever the aunts would say, she would go to his
house and demand to see him. She did not mind who might try to prevent
her, she would fight her way through them all. Only one look, one word
of assurance from him, and then she could endure anything. That she
must have or she would die.

At last Martha knocked on the door; she had her bath, dressed, still
with this terrible pain at her heart.

She was alone at breakfast, she drank some coffee, then went up to the
drawing-room to think for a moment what course she should pursue. The
room was flooded with sunlight that struck the fire into a dead,
lifeless yellow.

As she stood there she heard through the open door voices in the hall.
But before she had heard the voices she knew that it was Martin.

Martha was expostulating, her voice following his step up the hall.

"I shall go and tell my mistress," Maggie heard.

Then Martin came in.

When she saw him she stood speechless where she was. The change in him
terrified her so that her heart seemed to leap into her throat choking
her. The colour had drained from his face, leaving it dry and yellow.
He had an amazing resemblance to his father, his eyes had exactly the
same bewildered expression as though he were lost and yet he seemed
quite calm, his only movement was one hand that wandered up and down
his waistcoat feeling the buttons one after the other.

He looked at her as though he did not know her, and yet he spoke her
name.

"Maggie," he said, "I've come to say good-bye. You know what I said
before. Well, it's come true. Father is dead, and I killed him."

With a terrible effort, beating down a terror that seemed personally to
envelop her, she said:

"No, Martin. I saw him die. It wasn't you, Martin dear."

"It was I," he answered. "You don't know. I came into the house d