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Aunt Clara will come and fetch me when you are gone,' said Lily, bursting into fresh tears.

'I wouldn't let you go,' said Aunt Dulcinea, and her soft heart melted.

'I shall be back before they know I am gone,' said Catherine soothingly.

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'Granny knows everything, and Aunt Dulcinea is frightened of granny—you know she is,' said Lily. But if you will forbid me to go, I can tell them so when they come for me.'

'There, there, I forbid you,' said Catherine, and she fondled the little fragile creature who clung to her so faithfully

Exhausted by grief, wakefulness, and excitement, Catherine fell asleep in the train as daylight waned, and was astonished when she woke, somewhat chilled and stiff, to find herself at her journey's end.

By the time her cab drew up at the house in Belgrave Square she had realised afresh all that had happened, and the tears started again to her eyes at the sight of the old butler's familiar face at the front door. She greeted him kindly, for his own distress was very obvious.

'Is Lady Adelstane able to see me at once? And where is Miss Philippa? Is she sitting up for me? I should like to go first to her,' she said, wringing the old man's hand, which he put out to her, trembling, as though he scarce knew what he did. ‘Oh, maʼam—oh, my lady!' said Pilkington.

'Do not do not-I know it is terrible-but indeed we must not give way,' said Catherine with a sob in her throat.

'We wasn't sure we didn't send to meet you-my lady, butyou came by the four o'clock train?' he faltered.

'Yes,' she said, surprised.

'And there was no-you did not get the second telegram? I was afraid it was sent off too late. But her ladyship was that distracted-she didn't well know what she was doing.'

What do you mean?'

'Oh, my lady, come in! You mustn't stand here--what am I thinking of? Come in-come in,' said Pilkington. Her ladyship's upstairs, most out of her mind, and here's dinner ready for you in the dining-room.'

Catherine followed him, almost wondering to see the steady and self-possessed Pilkington thus utterly unstrung.

"What second telegram?' she repeated as he closed the dining

room door upon the little commotion in the hall-the footmen carrying in her modest luggage and paying the cabman.

The old man looked at her with an expression so imploring as to be almost wild.

'To ask you-whether to ask you if-Miss Philippa had gone back to Welwysbere-to you, my lady?' he cried, putting his shaking hands together. "For she's not been seen here since she came home from the dance at three o'clock in the morning.'

Catherine knew not what she said nor what she looked, and was not conscious how she got out of the room or upstairs; but the echo of Pilkington's words had not died from her ears before she found herself holding Augusta's shoulder in the drawing-room, almost shaking her-hoarsely asking her over and over again what she had done with her child. She was in truth for a few moments like a mad woman, knowing not what she said nor what Augusta answered. The pent-up thoughts, suppressed anxiety, and hidden jealous resentment of weeks found words and poured themselves forth, but so incoherently as merely to frighten Augusta without reaching her understanding. All she knew and felt was that Catherine was like one possessed and insane with blind fury, and that such behaviour towards a woman just bereaved of her husband was an outrage. She screamed with terror and indignation, and it was Mme. Minart who flew to her assistance and who put Catherine into a chair by the open window with a mixture of authority and soothing, and forced her presently to swallow a glass of wine.

'Who are you?' Catherine faltered, regaining some measure of her self-command.

'I am nobody-nothing,' said Mme. Minart in her impatient tones of suppressed force. She fixed her great dark eyes upon Catherine's white face with some compassion. Be calm. Of what use this agony, this emotion? It is not thus you can help yourself or others.'

Catherine gave her a strange wild look.

'I know now who you are. You are right-I must be calm. I must think-and act.' She put her hands to her hair, smoothed it, and rose from the armchair, refreshed physically by the wine and mentally by the Frenchwoman's reproaches.

'I beg your pardon, Augusta,' said Catherine, and her voice grew almost steady. Now tell me quickly and plainly what has happened, and what you have done with Philippa.'

Augusta, fat and helpless, reclining on a Louis Seize couch among embroidered cushions, and clothed in flowing lace draperies, was in very little case to speak quickly or plainly.

'Everything has happened,' she wailed-' everything at once. It is appalling! I sent for you-what more could I do? I am sure you cannot reproach me more than I reproach myself for ever undertaking the charge of another person's child. But he wished it. I can't realise what has hpppened. I am like a person in a dream. Oh, Catherine! he can't really be dead-all in a moment like that '-her voice rose to a scream -' and you to come and reproach me!'

She hid her face in her lace handkerchief, really unable to continue, and Catherine wrung her hands in distress and impatience. 'Where is Roper? I trusted my child to her,' she said, turning to the door.

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'Roper knows nothing. I will tell you, since Miladi cannot,' said Mme. Minart. Miladi took your daughter to a ball last night, and returned about three in the morning. Philippa came to my room to tell me of her enjoyment, and I told her that in the morning she must sleep late after a fatigue so great. Also I unfastened her dress, for she had forbid Roper, who is old, to sit up for her; and she knew that to me it is nothing to be disturbed. At seven this morning I rise and go to seek Roper, that she may not disturb the child; and I meet her on the stairs, crying, for she has seen the servant who brought the letter from Devonshire for Miladi, and he has told her of the terrible news. I still forbid that the child should be waked to hear this.'

Catherine put out her hand impulsively, as though to thank Mme. Minart for this thought of Philippa, but the Frenchwoman did not pause in her rapid low-toned recital.

"I say to Roper, "Let her sleep as long as she will; it will be time enough that she should know. What can she do?" And Roper agree, but say I am not to tell her, she will tell herself. What would you? The vulgar find a certain joy even in the telling of bad news,' said Mme. Minart disdainfully. I say I will certainly not tell her, and I go to seek the maid of Miladi. She too says Miladi will know soon enough, and will let her sleep on, and give the letter only when she wakes, since there is nothing— no more to be done for the poor gentleman. And since Miladi is 'there was an inflection of satire in Mme. Minart's tones- so weak, so delicate, that she will need all her strength in a grief so terrible.

At nine o'clock Holland dares no longer wait, and she goes to Miladi, who has, as was to be expected, an attack of the nerves.'

Of the heart,' supplemented Augusta with a sob.

'Of the heart.' Mme. Minart accepted the correction without a change of expression. And Holland is obliged to call for assistance. I go, and Roper, and others. There is a great confusion. When Roper goes upstairs to her young lady she finds that she has already risen and left her room. She looks for her downstairs in the room where we breakfast, and finds her not, and someone says she is with Miladi. Later we find that she is not with Miladi, and that Miladi has not seen her. We search here and there; no one has seen her, no one has told her the news. That is all,' said Mme. Minart.

What did you do?'

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What could we do,' said Augusta, weeping, but wait for her to come back, or let us know where she had gone? I made up my mind she had heard the news somehow and raced off to you. It would be just like her, so headstrong-and without a word to anybody. It never occurred to me to telegraph and ask you. I waited to hear from you. And then it turned out that nobody could have told her, since nobody had seen her, so I grew frightened and telegraphed to you. It was Pilkington who made me wire a second time, for he had wired privately himself meantime to the station-master at Ilverton and learnt that she had not arrived there.' As she spoke the butler brought a telegram into the room, and waited, breathless with anxiety, while Catherine tore it open, heedless to whom it might be addressed.

It was from Miss Dulcinea.

'Philippa has not come home. Are we to expect her? Cannot understand your wire.'

'I took the liberty of telegraphing myself to Mrs. Jones at the Abbey,' said Pilkington in subdued tones to Catherine. Miss Philippa has not arrived there, my lady. I put it very guarded, not to rouse any talk like. I think, my lady, no more time ought to be lost, if you'll excuse me.'

'Of course no more time ought to be lost,' said Catherine, trembling. Where is Colonel Moore? Have you sent to him,

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or to Mr. Chilcott? And Lady Sarah ? '

'I sent round to her ladyship's house the first thing this morning. Miss Philippa has not been to Curzon Street, my lady. And

Colonel Moore and Squire Chilcott is out of town, just left to spend the week-end at Ralte.'

'Yes, yes! Colonel Moore said last night that they were going -and Grace Trumoin too. So like Blanche, luring all my friends away from me!' sobbed Augusta.

Saturday's a awkward day for everything, my lady,' said Pilkington, but I don't think we ought to lose a moment, now you've come, in going to Scotland Yard. They'll telegraph her description all down the line to Devonshire and all over the country. It's the best thing we can do.'

Yes, yes, we can do that. and I will telegraph to Ralte; hear. Come at once, Pilkington.'

It is something,' said Catherine, they will come back when they

'Catherine, you must rest-you must eat something, or you will be ill yourself,' cried Augusta. I am as ill as I can be. I feel as if I should go out of my mind with all this on the top of what has happened.'

'Do you think I shall ever rest again, day or night,' said Catherine fiercely, ' until I know my child is safe? Come, Pilkington, we will take Roper with us, and I can question her as we go.' And she went away without another word or look to spare for the weeping new-made widow.

CHAPTER XV.

WHAT am I to do? I determined I would come and ask youfor Catherine will not pay the least heed to what I say. I do not think she even hears me. She never went to bed at all last night. She will be out of her mind if this goes on.'

'And no wonder,' said Lady Sarah grimly.

'Of course I'm not fit to come and see you. No one could expect it of me,' sobbed Augusta. It's not decent that I should come even here, but at your age I did not feel justified in asking you to come to me. Of course, if this-this extraordinary complication had not happened, I should have gone down at onceat once to the Abbey, able or not able, as everyone would have expected of me. As it is I am stunned, simply stunned, as anyone would be (and everyone knows what we were to each other). But here am I, a widow only a day old, and nobody thinking about me or my feelings at all. Mr. Ash writing for instructions, when

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