was _Mr_ Carnaby who first made known his
difficulties.'

'I am told so.'

'By Mrs. Carnaby? Yes, no doubt it was so. I don't think Mrs. Carnaby
could quite have--I mean she is a little reserved, don't you think? She
would hardly have spoken about it to--to a comparative stranger.'

'But Mr. Redgrave can't be called a stranger,' said Alma. 'They have
been friends for a long time. Surely you know that.'

'Friends in _that_ sense? The word has such different meanings. You and
Mr. Redgrave are friends, but I don't think you would care to tell him
if your husband were in difficulties of that kind--would you?'

'But Sibyl--Mrs. Carnaby didn't tell him,' replied Alma, with nervous
vehemence.

'No, no; we take that for granted. I don't think Mr. Carnaby is--the
kind of man----'

'What kind of man?'

'I hardly know him; we have met, that's all. But I should fancy he
wouldn't care to know that his wife talked about such things to Mr
Redgrave or any one else. There _are_ men'--her voice sank, and the
persistent smile became little better than an ugly grin--'there _are_
men who don't mind it. One hears stories I shouldn't like to repeat to
you, or even to hint at. But those are very different people from the
Carnabys. Then, I suppose,' she added, with abrupt turn, 'Mr. Carnaby
is very often away from home?'

Trying to reply, Alma found her voice obstructed.

'I think so.'

'How very kind of Mr. Redgrave, wasn't it! Has he spoken about it to
_you_?'

'Of course not.'

'Naturally, he wouldn't.--Oh, don't go yet, dear. Why, we have had no
tea; it isn't four o'clock. Must you really go? Of course, you are
overwhelmed with engagements. But do--do take care of your health. And
remember our little scheme. If Mr. Redgrave could look in--say, the day
after tomorrow? You shall hear from me in time. I feel--I really
feel--that it wouldn't be wise to let him think--you understand me.'

With scarce a word of leave-taking, Alma hastened away. The air of this
room was stifling her, and the low cooing voice had grown more
intolerable than a clanging uproar. From Porchester Terrace she walked
into Bayswater Road, her eyes on the pavement. It was a sunny
afternoon, but there had been showers, and now again large spots of
rain began to fall. As she was opening her umbrella, a cabman's voice
appealed to her, and fixed her purpose. She bade him drive her to
Oxford and Cambridge Mansions.

Sibyl was not at home. The maid-servant co