ed miserably.

Lady Touchstone rose and stooped to kiss the girl tenderly.

"Take my advice," she said, "and write to John Forest to-night. And
now don't fret. You're a thousand times better off than you were four
days ago. For one thing, you know where he is. What's more, he's
content to let bygones be bygones. My darling, you've much to be
thankful for. And now go and take a hot bath, and try and get a nap
before dinner. Poor child, you must be dead tired."

With a sudden movement Valerie threw her arms about her aunt's neck.

"I don't know why you're so good to me," she said.

Then she kissed her swiftly and, getting upon her feet, passed up the
broad stairs.

For a moment Lady Touchstone stood looking after her niece. Then she
put a hand to her head and sank into a chair. She was profoundly
worried. If any girl other than Valerie had come to her with such an
account, she would have been less troubled. But Valerie was so very
clear-headed. True, her love had got away with her, and she had had
the very deuce of a fall. But she was up again now, and nothing like
that would ever happen again. Her judgment was back in its seat as
firm as ever. And when she said that something was wrong with Anthony,
that he seemed to hear things, that there was "the queerest light in
his eyes," Lady Touchstone knew that it was perfectly true. What was
worse, she was entirely satisfied that these things meant brain
trouble. For three months after his wife had died, Valerie's own
father had been under surveillance for precisely similar symptoms. She
remembered them fearfully. And this Major Lyveden was so reminiscent
of poor Oliver. His voice, his manner, the very way his hair grew
about his temples, reminded her strangely of her dead brother. It was
not surprising that she attributed Anthony's condition to a somewhat
similar cause. What troubled her most was her conscience. She had set
her heart upon the match, and she was now uncertain whether it was not
her clear duty to try to call it off.

After a little she rose and crossed to a table. Taking a sheet of
notepaper, she began to write.

_DEAR WILLOUGHBY,_

_I think it probable that within a few days your secretary will make an
appointment for you to see a Miss Valerie French. This is my niece.
She does not know we are friends. When she tells you her tale, you
need make no allowance for hysteria. Believe every word she says. She
will not exaggera