tside, in the passage, her smile, like something actual on the air,
preceded him--the smile that had just lasted out. But when he was back
in the study, he suffered--suffered! Why could he not have that pain to
bear instead?

The crunch of the brougham brought his ceaseless march over the carpet
to an end. He went out into the hall and looked into the doctor's
face--he had forgotten that this old fellow knew nothing of his special
reason for deadly fear. Then he turned back into his study. The wild
south wind brought wet drift-leaves whirling against the panes. It was
here that he had stood looking out into the dark, when Fiorsen came down
to ask for Gyp a year ago. Why had he not bundled the fellow out neck
and crop, and taken her away?--India, Japan--anywhere would have
done! She had not loved that fiddler, never really loved him.
Monstrous--monstrous! The full bitterness of having missed right action
swept over Winton, and he positively groaned aloud. He moved from the
window and went over to the bookcase; there in one row were the few
books he ever read, and he took one out. "Life of General Lee." He
put it back and took another, a novel of Whyte Melville's: "Good for
Nothing." Sad book--sad ending! The book dropped from his hand and fell
with a flump on the floor. In a sort of icy discovery, he had seen his
life as it would be if for a second time he had to bear such loss. She
must not--could not die! If she did--then, for him--! In old times they
buried a man with his horse and his dog, as if at the end of a good run.
There was always that! The extremity of this thought brought relief. He
sat down, and, for a long time, stayed staring into the fire in a sort
of coma. Then his feverish fears began again. Why the devil didn't they
come and tell him something, anything--rather than this silence, this
deadly solitude and waiting? What was that? The front door shutting.
Wheels? Had that hell-hound of an old doctor sneaked off? He started
up. There at the door was Markey, holding in his hand some cards. Winton
scanned them.

"Lady Summerhay; Mr. Bryan Summerhay. I said, 'Not at home,' sir."

Winton nodded.

"Well?"

"Nothing at present. You have had no lunch, sir."

"What time is it?"

"Four o'clock."

"Bring in my fur coat and the port, and make the fire up. I want any
news there is."

Markey nodded.

Odd to sit in a fur coat before a fire, and the day not cold! They said
you lived on after death. He had