hould send Edwin
over, and he was wandering vaguely about in nervous expectation. In an
instant they were discussing George's case, and the advisability of
telegraphing to Hilda. Mrs Orgreave immediately joined them in the
hall. Both father and mother clearly stood in awe of the gentle but
powerful Janet. And somehow the child was considered as her private
affair, into which others might not thrust themselves save on
sufferance. Perceiving that Edwin was slightly inclined to the course
of telegraphing, they drew him towards them as a reinforcement, but
while Mrs Orgreave frankly displayed her dependence on him, Mr
Orgreave affected to be strong, independent, and judicial.

"I wish you'd go and speak to her," Mrs Orgreave entreated.

"Upstairs?"

"It won't do any harm, anyhow," said Osmond, finely indifferent.

They went up the stairs in a procession. Edwin did not wish to tell
them about the Vicar. He could see no sense in telling them about the
Vicar. And yet, before they reached the top of the stairs, he heard
himself saying in a concerned whisper--

"You know about the Vicar of Saint Peter's?"

"No."

"Died at four o'clock."

"Oh dear me! Dear me!" murmured Mrs Orgreave, agonised.

Most evidently George's case was aggravated by the Vicar's death--and
not only in the eyes of Mrs Orgreave and her falsely stoic husband, but
in Edwin's eyes too! Useless for him to argue with himself about
idiotic superstitiousness! The death of the Vicar had undoubtedly
influenced his attitude towards George.

They halted on the landing, outside a door that was ajar. Near them
burned a gas jet, and beneath the bracket was a large framed photograph
of the bridal party at Alicia's wedding. Farther along the landing were
other similar records of the weddings of Marion, Tom, and Jimmie.

Mr Orgreave pushed the door half open.

"Janet," said Mr Orgreave conspiratorially.

"Well?" from within the bedroom.

"Here's Edwin."

Janet appeared in the doorway, pale. She was wearing an apron with a
bib.

"I--I thought I'd just look in and inquire," Edwin said awkwardly,
fiddling with his hat and a pocket of his overcoat. "What's he like
now?"

Janet gave details. The sick-room lay hidden behind the face of the
door, mysterious and sacred.

"Mr Edwin thinks you ought to telegraph," said Mrs Orgreave timidly.

"Do you?" demanded Janet. Her eyes seemed to pierce him. Why did she
gaze at him with such particular