's been a widow?"

"No," said Edwin. "I've barely seen her."

At these words he became so constrained, and so suspicious of the look
on his own face, that he rose abruptly and began to walk about the room.

"What's the matter?" demanded Charlie. "Got pins and needles?"

"Only fidgets," said Edwin.

"I hope this isn't one of your preliminaries for clearing out and
leaving me alone," Charlie complained. "Here--where's that glass of
yours? Have another cigarette."

There was a sound that seemed to resemble a tap on the door.

"What's that noise?" said Edwin, startled. The whole of his epidermis
tingled, and he stood still. They both listened.

The sound was repeated. Yes, it was a tap on the door; but in the
night, and in the repose of the house, it had the character of some
unearthly summons.

Edwin was near the door. He hesitated for an instant afraid, and then
with an effort brusquely opened the door and looked forth beyond the
shelter of the room. A woman's figure was disappearing down the passage
in the direction of the stairs. It was she.

"Did you--" he began. But Hilda had gone. Agitated, he said to
Charlie, his hand still on the knob: "It's Mrs Cannon. She just
knocked and ran off. I expect she wants you."

Charlie jumped up and scurried out of the room exactly like a boy,
despite his tall, mature figure of a man of thirty-five.

VOLUME FOUR, CHAPTER TWELVE.

END OF THE NIGHT.

For the second time that night Edwin was left alone for a long period in
the little breakfast-room. Charlie's phrase, `You're another of her
beliefs,' shone like a lamp in his memory, beneficent. And though he
was still jealous of Charlie, with whom Hilda's relations were obviously
very intimate; although he said to himself, `She never made any appeal
to me, she would scarcely have my help at any price;' nevertheless he
felt most singularly uplifted and, without any reason, hopeful. So much
so that the fate of the child became with him a matter of secondary
importance. He excused this apparent callousness by making sure in his
own mind that the child was in no real danger. On the other hand he
blamed himself for ever having fancied that Hilda was indifferent to
George. She, indifferent to her own son! What a wretched, stupid
slander! He ought to have known better than that. He ought to have
known that a Hilda would bring to maternity the mightiest passions. All
that Charlie had said confirmed him