she had expected to do so, she heard a familiar sound. It
came from the chapel, for Charles was fond of using that strange and
secret entry into his house.

She got up and quietly opened her bedroom door.

From the hall below was cast up the dim light of the oil-lamp which
always burnt there at night, and suddenly Catherine saw her husband
emerge from the chapel passage, and begin walking slowly round the
opposite side of the gallery. She watched him with languid curiosity.

Charles Nagle was treading softly, his head bent as if in thought.
Suddenly he stayed his steps by a half-moon table on which stood a large
Chinese bowl filled with pot-pourri; and into this he plunged his hands,
seeming to lave them in the dry rose-leaves. Catherine felt no surprise,
she was so used to his strange ways; and more than once he had hidden
things--magpie fashion--in that great bowl. She turned and closed her
door noiselessly; Charles much disliked being spied on.

At last she heard him go into his dressing-room. Then came the sounds of
cupboard doors being flung open, and the hurried pouring out of
water.... But long before he could have had time to undress, she heard
the familiar knock.

She said feebly, "Come in," and the door opened.

It was as she had feared; her husband had no thought, no intention, of
going yet to bed. Not only was he fully dressed, but the white evening
waistcoat he had been wearing had been changed by him within the last
few moments for a waistcoat she had not seen before, though she had
heard of its arrival from London. It was of cashmere, the latest freak
of fashion. She also saw with surprise that his nankeen trousers were
stained, as if he had been kneeling on damp ground. He looked very hot,
his wavy hair lay damply on his brow, and he appeared excited,
oppressively alive.

"Catherine!" he exclaimed, hurrying up to the place where she was
standing near the fire. "You will bear witness that I was always and
most positively averse to the railroad being brought here?" He did not
wait for her to answer him. "Did I not always say that trouble would
come of it--trouble to us all? Yet sometimes it's an ill thing to be
proved right."

"Indeed it is, Charles," she answered gently. "But let us talk of this
to-morrow. It's time for bed, my dear, and I am very weary."

He was now standing by her, staring down into the fire.

Suddenly he turned and seized her left arm. He brought her unresisting
across the