her eyes bright and hard.

She held out her hand to the doctor.

"How good you have been," she said, speaking very fast, in a high
unnatural voice: "I am afraid I have given you a great deal of trouble. I
don't remember much about last night, excepting that they said Michael
had been killed. Has Michael really been killed, do you think? And will
they give me details? Surely I have a right to know details. Nothing can
alter the fact that I was Michael's wife, can it? Do go to breakfast,
Maggie. There is nothing gained by standing there, smiling, and saying
you do not want any breakfast. Everybody wants breakfast at nine o'clock
in the morning. I should want breakfast, if Michael had not been killed.
Tell her she ought to have breakfast, Sir Deryck. I believe she has been
up all night. It is such a comfort to have her. She is so brave and
bright; and so full of sympathy."

"She is very brave," said the doctor; "and you are right as to her need
of breakfast. Go down-stairs for a little while, Mrs. O'Mara. I will stay
with Lady Ingleby."

She moved obediently to the door; but Sir Deryck reached it before her.
And the famous London specialist held the door open for the sergeant's
young widow, with an air of deference such as he would hardly have
bestowed upon a queen.

Then he came back to Lady Ingleby. His train left in three-quarters of an
hour. But his task here was not finished. She had slept; but before he
dare leave her, she must weep.

"Where is Peter?" inquired the excited voice from the bed. "He always
barks to be let out, in the morning; but I have heard nothing of him
yet."

"He was exhausted last night, poor little chap," said the doctor. "He
could scarcely walk. I carried him up, myself; and put him on the bed in
the next room. The coat was still there, I wrapped him in it. He licked
my hand, and lay down, content."

"I want to see him," said Lady Ingleby. "Michael loved him. He seems all
I have left of Michael."

"I will fetch him," said the doctor.

He went into the adjoining room, leaving the door ajar. Myra heard him
reach the bed. Then followed a long silence.

"What is it?" she called at last. "Is he not there? Why are you so
long?"

Then the doctor came back. He carried something in his arms, wrapped in
the old shooting jacket.

"Dear Lady Ingleby," he said, "little Peter is dead. He must have died
during the night, in his sleep. He was lying just as I left him, curled
up in the coat; bu