n heads, who will deliberate what the first will not so much as
suppose. Barnet had a wife whose pretence distracted his home; she now
lay as in death; by merely doing nothing--by letting the intelligence
which had gone forth to the world lie undisturbed--he would effect such a
deliverance for himself as he had never hoped for, and open up an
opportunity of which till now he had never dreamed. Whether the
conjuncture had arisen through any unscrupulous, ill-considered impulse
of Charlson to help out of a strait the friend who was so kind as never
to press him for what was due could not be told; there was nothing to
prove it; and it was a question which could never be asked. The
triangular situation--himself--his wife--Lucy Savile--was the one clear
thing.

From Barnet's actions we may infer that he supposed such and such a
result, for a moment, but did not deliberate. He withdrew his hazel eyes
from the scene without, calmly turned, rang the bell for assistance, and
vigorously exerted himself to learn if life still lingered in that
motionless frame. In a short time another surgeon was in attendance; and
then Barnet's surmise proved to be true. The slow life timidly heaved
again; but much care and patience were needed to catch and retain it, and
a considerable period elapsed before it could be said with certainty that
Mrs. Barnet lived. When this was the case, and there was no further room
for doubt, Barnet left the chamber. The blue evening smoke from Lucy's
chimney had died down to an imperceptible stream, and as he walked about
downstairs he murmured to himself, 'My wife was dead, and she is alive
again.'

It was not so with Downe. After three hours' immersion his wife's body
had been recovered, life, of course, being quite extinct. Barnet on
descending, went straight to his friend's house, and there learned the
result. Downe was helpless in his wild grief, occasionally even
hysterical. Barnet said little, but finding that some guiding hand was
necessary in the sorrow-stricken household, took upon him to supervise
and manage till Downe should be in a state of mind to do so for himself.

CHAPTER VI

One September evening, four months later, when Mrs. Barnet was in perfect
health, and Mrs. Downe but a weakening memory, an errand-boy paused to
rest himself in front of Mr. Barnet's old house, depositing his basket on
one of the window-sills. The street was not yet lighted, but there were
lights in t