f a
tumbler of raw brandy. "There, I am quite right again now; I had a bad
attack of indigestion, that is all. Good night."

Angela went without a word. She understood now what her father had
meant when he said that he was "accursed;" but she could not help
wondering whether the brandy had anything to do with his
"indigestion."

On the following day the doctor came to see her. It struck Angela that
he came oftener than was necessary, the fact being that he would
gladly have attended her gratis all year round. A doctor does not
often get the chance of visiting such a patient.

"You do not look quite so well to-day," he said.

"No," she answered, with a little smile; "I had bad dreams last
night."

"Ah! I thought so. You should try to avoid that sort of thing; you are
far too imaginative already."

"One cannot run away from one's dreams. Murder will out in sleep."

"Well, I have a message for you."

"Who from?"

"Lady Bellamy. You know that she is paralysed?"

"Yes."

"Well, she wants you to go and see her. Shall you go?"

Angela thought a little, and answered,

"Yes, I think so."

"You must be prepared for some bitter language if she speaks at all.
Very likely she will beg you to get her some poison to kill herself
with. I have been obliged to take the greatest precautions to prevent
her from obtaining any. I am not very sensitive, but once or twice she
has positively made me shiver with the things she says."

"She can never say anything more dreadful to me than she has said
already, Dr. Williamson."

"Perhaps not. Go if you like. If you were revengeful--which I am sure
you are not--you would have good reason to be satisfied at what you
will see. Medically speaking, it is a sad case."

Accordingly, that every afternoon, Angela, accompanied by Pigott,
started off for Rewtham House, where Lady Bellamy still lived, or
rather existed. It was her first outing since the inquest on George
Caresfoot had caused her and her history to become publicly notorious,
and, as she walked along, she was surprised to find that she was the
object of popular sympathy. Every man she met touched or took off his
hat, according to his degree, and, as soon as she had passed, turned
round and stared at her. Some fine folks whom she did not know--
indeed, she knew no one, though it had been the fashion to send and
"inquire" during her illness--drove past in an open carriage and pair,
and she saw a gentleman on the front seat