rgument. Esther
opened her lips to protest, but found nothing to say.

"She has outwitted us," he went on. "How? who can say? They have the
cunning of the devil! There is only one thing to do now. Only one way--"

"You mean?--"

"The wedding must take place at once. I suppose the farce is really
necessary. But there must be no more delay. Only the unsparing use of a
husband's authority can save her now. I shall take her away. I must be
with her day and night. In France there is a place I know, beautiful,
isolated. I shall take her there. If all else fails there is the
treatment of hypnotic suggestion. But--I shall not fail, I dare not!"

Blindly she put out her hand--he clasped it gently--yet not as if he
knew whose hand it was. Then, laying it aside, he passed by, and,
leaving her sobbing in the dusk, went on into the house and up the
stairs to the closed room.

CHAPTER XXXII

It became quickly known in Coombe that, owing to Mrs. Coombe's delicate
health, the wedding would take place much sooner than had been expected.
A sea voyage, it was conceded, was the necessary thing and as Dr.
Callandar would not allow his fiancee to go away alone it seemed only
fair that he should make haste to go with her. Comment on all these
points was much more restrained than usual because, just at this time,
Coombe withstood the shock of finding out that Dr. Callandar was no less
than Dr. Henry Chedridge Callandar of Montreal. No, not his brother, nor
his cousin, but the man himself!

Of course Coombe had suspected this all along. Never for a moment had it
been really deceived. Over and over again it had said: "My dear, that
young man is not a mere local practitioner, mark my words!" From the
first, Coombe had observed the marks of true distinction in him. He was
so odd! He seemed to care nothing at all for appearances, and, as
everybody knows, this comfortable attitude of mind is the privilege of
the famous few. Besides, there was the matter of the marriage. Coombe
had been right in thinking that Mary Coombe had not gone into the matter
blindfold. She had known very well upon which side her bread was
buttered, and as to her giving way to his whims in the absurd way she
did--that, too, was understandable under the circumstances.

What puzzled Coombe, now, was how she had managed it. She was not
pretty, at least not very pretty. She was not young, at least only
comparatively young. And goodness knows, she was not clever! H