it to do
nothing worse than to keep out of the way for a while. My only
interest, acting on your behalf, is to get at the truth. If you will
give me time, I see no reason to despair of finding your husband yet.'

Ferrari's wife listened, without being convinced: her narrow little
mind, filled to its extreme capacity by her unfavourable opinion of Mr.
Troy, had no room left for the process of correcting its first
impression. 'I am much obliged to you, sir,' was all she said. Her
eyes were more communicative--her eyes added, in their language, 'You
may say what you please; I will never forgive you to my dying day.'

Mr. Troy gave it up. He composedly wheeled his chair around, put his
hands in his pockets, and looked out of window.

After an interval of silence, the drawing-room door was opened.

Mr. Troy wheeled round again briskly to the table, expecting to see
Agnes. To his surprise there appeared, in her place, a perfect
stranger to him--a gentleman, in the prime of life, with a marked
expression of pain and embarrassment on his handsome face. He looked
at Mr. Troy, and bowed gravely.

'I am so unfortunate as to have brought news to Miss Agnes Lockwood
which has greatly distressed her,' he said. 'She has retired to her
room. I am requested to make her excuses, and to speak to you in her
place.'

Having introduced himself in those terms, he noticed Mrs. Ferrari, and
held out his hand to her kindly. 'It is some years since we last met,
Emily,' he said. 'I am afraid you have almost forgotten the "Master
Henry" of old times.' Emily, in some little confusion, made her
acknowledgments, and begged to know if she could be of any use to Miss
Lockwood. 'The old nurse is with her,' Henry answered; 'they will be
better left together.' He turned once more to Mr. Troy. 'I ought to
tell you,' he said, 'that my name is Henry Westwick. I am the younger
brother of the late Lord Montbarry.'

'The late Lord Montbarry!' Mr. Troy exclaimed.

'My brother died at Venice yesterday evening. There is the telegram.'
With that startling answer, he handed the paper to Mr. Troy.

The message was in these words:

'Lady Montbarry, Venice. To Stephen Robert Westwick, Newbury's Hotel,
London. It is useless to take the journey. Lord Montbarry died of
bronchitis, at 8.40 this evening. All needful details by post.'

'Was this expected, sir?' the lawyer asked.

'I cannot say that it has taken us entirely by surprise, Henry
answered. 'My brot