s, that you really are her lawful husband, that moment
will be the beginning of a new life for her."

Somehow they both seemed to feel that the last words had been spoken.
After a brief pause, the doctor helped himself to a farewell drink,
filled his pipe and stood up. The car which Dominey had ordered from the
garage was already standing at the door. It was curious how both of them
seemed disinclined to refer again even indirectly to the subject which
they had been discussing.

"Very good of you to send me back," the doctor said gruffly. "I started
out all right, but it was a drear walk across the marshes."

"I am very grateful to you for coming," Dominey replied, with obvious
sincerity. "You will come and have a look at the patient in a day or
two?"

"I'll stroll across as soon as you've got rid of some of this houseful,"
the doctor promised. "Good night!"

The two men parted, and curiously enough Dominey was conscious that
with those few awkward words of farewell some part of the incipient
antagonism between them had been buried. Left to himself, he wandered
for some moments up and down the great, dimly lit hall. A strange
restlessness seemed to have fastened itself upon him. He stood for a
time by the dying fire, watching the grey ashes, stirred uneasily by the
wind which howled down the chimney. Then he strolled to a different
part of the hall, and one by one he turned on, by means of the electric
switches, the newly installed lights which hung above the sombre oil
pictures upon the wall. He looked into the faces of some of these dead
Domineys, trying to recall what he had heard of their history, and
dwelling longest upon a gallant of the Stuart epoch, whose misdeeds had
supplied material for every intimate chronicler of those days. When at
last the sight of a sleepy manservant hovering in the background forced
his steps upstairs, he still lingered for a few moments in the corridor
and turned the handle of his bedroom door with almost reluctant fingers.
His heart gave a great jump as he realised that there was some one
there. He stood for a moment upon the threshold, then laughed shortly to
himself at his foolish imagining. It was his servant who was patiently
awaiting his arrival.

"You can go to bed, Dickens," he directed. "I shall not want you again
to-night. We shoot in the morning."

The man silently took his leave, and Dominey commenced his preparations
for bed. He was in no humour for sleep, however,