or not. That man would as soon murder
you in your bed as look at you. He's a bad lot. You can say what you
like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot!'"

"What did she say?"

Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace.

"'Darling Alfred'--'dearest Alfred'--'wicked calumnies' --'wicked
lies'--'wicked woman'--to accuse her 'dear husband'! The sooner I left
her house the better. So I'm off."

"But not now?"

"This minute!"

For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish, finding
his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife
followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to
think better of it.

As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed. She leant towards me
eagerly.

"Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you?"

I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her voice
to a whisper.

"Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They're a lot of
sharks--all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There isn't
one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I've
protected her as much as I could. Now I'm out of the way, they'll impose
upon her."

"Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but I'm
sure you're excited and overwrought."

She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger.

"Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than you
have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You'll see what I mean."

The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard
rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside. With her hand
on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to
me.

"Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil--her husband!"

There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager
chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear.

As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from
the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded
man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her
cheeks as she held out her hand to him.

"Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man.

"That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly.

"And who is Dr. Bauerstein?"

"He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous
breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man--one