regular features, by
no means vulgar, the blood-red eyes of greed for murder, he saw again as
in that fatal hour. Whenever any new calamity had fallen upon him, the
shrill murder-counseling voice was with him, heard at times like a note
of discord even in later days of relief from anxiety, or in some gay
moment of mirth. "He was wise," he murmured, remembering the German's
counsel, and resolutely put aside the disturbing thought. At last Nanny,
the black maid, called him to breakfast. He was alone with Schmidt and
Mrs. Swanwick. They discussed quietly what doctor they should call; not
their friend, Dr. Redman, as neither he nor Dr. Rush spoke French.
Schmidt said: "I have sent a note to Mr. Wynne not to expect you. Set
your mind at ease."

There was need of the advice. De Courval felt the helplessness of a
young man in the presence of a woman's illness. He sat still in his
chair at breakfast, hardly hearing the German's efforts to reassure him.

It was near to eight. Nanny had gone up to relieve Margaret, who
presently came in, saying, "Aunt Gainor is without, back from her
morning ride."

There was a heavy footfall in the hall and a clear, resonant voice,
"Mary Swanwick, where are you?"

In the doorway, kept open for the summer air to sweep through, the large
figure of Gainor Wynne appeared in riding skirt and low beaver hat, a
heavy whip in her hand. The years had dealt lightly with the woman, now
far past middle life. There was a mass of hair time had powdered, the
florid face, the high nose of her race, the tall, erect, massive build,
giving to the observant a sense of masculine vigor. On rare occasions
there was also a perplexing realization of infinite feminine tenderness,
and, when she pleased, the ways and manners of an unmistakable
gentlewoman.

As the two men rose, Mrs. Swanwick said quietly, "Aunt Gainor, Madame de
Courval is ill."

"As much as to say, 'Do not roam through the house and shout.'"

"This is Friend de Courval," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"You must pardon me, Vicomte," said Miss Wynne. "You must pardon a rude
old woman. I am Hugh Wynne's aunt. May I ask about your mother? Is she
very ill? I meant to call on her shortly. I am heartily at your
service."

"I fear she is very ill," he replied.

"Have you a doctor?"

"We were just now thinking whom we should have," said Mrs. Swanwick.
"The vicomtesse speaks no English."

"Yes, yes," said Mistress Wynne; "who shall we have? Not Dr. Rush. He