eemed to prefer to be alone. I
can give no explanation at all of the change. I tried to work against
it; I did all I could with justice to my own dignity, as I thought.
Something was between us, I did not know what, and he never told me. My
own obstinate pride prevented me from asking what it was in so many
words; I only made a point of being to him exactly as I had always been,
so far as he would allow me. I suppose I shall never know now what it
was." The witness, whose voice had trembled in spite of her
self-control, over the last few sentences, drew down her veil when she
had said this, and stood erect and quiet.

One of the jury asked a question, not without obvious hesitation. "Then
was there never anything of the nature of what they call Words between
you and your husband, ma'am?"

"Never." The word was colorlessly spoken; but everyone felt that a crass
misunderstanding of the possibilities of conduct in the case of a person
like Mrs. Manderson had been visited with some severity.

Did she know, the coroner asked, of any other matter which might have
been preying upon her husband's mind recently?

Mrs. Manderson knew of none whatever. The coroner intimated that her
ordeal was at an end, and the veiled lady made her way to the door. The
general attention, which followed her for a few moments, was now eagerly
directed upon Martin, whom the coroner had proceeded to call.

It was at this moment that Trent appeared at the doorway, and edged his
way into the great room. But he did not look at Martin. He was observing
the well-balanced figure that came quickly toward him along an opening
path in the crowd, and his eye was gloomy. He started, as he stood aside
from the door with a slight bow, to hear Mrs. Manderson address him by
name in a low voice. He followed her a pace or two into the hall.

"I wanted to ask you," she said in a voice now weak and oddly broken,
"if you would give me your arm a part of the way to the house. I could
not see my uncle near the door, and I suddenly felt rather faint.... I
shall be better in the air.... No, no! I cannot stay here--please, Mr.
Trent!" she said, as he began to make an obvious suggestion. "I must go
to the house." Her hand tightened momentarily on his arm as if, for all
her weakness, she could drag him from the place; then again she leaned
heavily upon it, and with that support, and with bent head, she walked
slowly from the hotel and along the oak-shaded path toward Whit