rned from the fire and looked at him for a moment. Her eyes were
colourless, her tone unemotional.

"Maybe! There's no harm in listening."

"Did you hear anything which made you want to listen?"

"Who can tell?" she answered. "A woman who lives well-nigh alone, as
I live, in a quiet place, hears things so often that other folk never
listen to. There's always something in my ears, night or day. Sometimes
I am not sure whether it's in this world or the other. It was like that
with me just then. It was for that reason I listened. Your luncheon's
ready, sir."

Hamel walked thoughtfully back into his sitting-room. He seated
himself before a spotless cloth and watched Hannah Cox spread out his
well-cooked, cleanly-served meal.

"If there's anything you want, sir," she said, "I shall hear you at a
word. The kitchen door is open."

"One moment, Mrs. Cox."

She lingered there patiently, with the tray in her hand.

"There was some sound," Hamel continued, "perhaps a real sound, perhaps
a fancy, which made you go down on your knees in the kitchen. Tell me
what it was."

"The sound I always hear, sir," she answered quietly. "I hear it in the
night, and I hear it when I stand by the sea and look out. I have heard
it for so many years that who can tell whether it comes from this world
or the other--the cry of men who die!"

She passed out. Hamel looked after her, for a moment, like a man in
a dream. In his fancy he could see her back again once more in the
kitchen, kneeling on the stone floor,--listening!

CHAPTER XXIX

A cold twilight had fallen upon the land when Hamel left the Tower
that evening and walked briskly along the foot-way to the Hall. Little
patches of mist hung over the creeks, the sky was almost frosty. The
lights from St. David's Hall shone like cheerful beacons before him. He
hastened up the stone steps, crossed the terrace, and passed into
the hall. A servant conducted him at once to the drawing-room. Mrs.
Fentolin, in a pink evening dress, with a pink ornament in her hair,
held out both her hands. In the background, Mr. Fentolin, in his
queerly-cut evening clothes, sat with folded arms, leaning back in his
carriage. He listened grimly to his sister-in-law as she stood with
Hamel's hands in hers.

"My dear Mr. Hamel!" she exclaimed. "How perfectly charming of you to
come up and relieve a little our sad loneliness! Delightful, I call it,
of you. I was just saying so to Miles."

Hamel looked