--but we must go to London, you
_must_ see some one; promise me that you will go, that you will go
immediately."

Again Linton saw his wife look at him as one looks at a creature of
pity. The faint lines from her nose to the corners of her mouth
deepened as if she were in physical pain; her eyes, open to their
fullest extent, had in them the expression of a mother watching her
dying babe. What was this strange wall that had suddenly raised itself
between them? Was he ill? No; he never was in better health in his life.
He found himself vainly searching for aches in his bones. Again he
brushed away this thing which seemed to be upon his face. There must be
something on my face, he thought, else why does she look at me with such
hopeless despair in her eyes; these kindly eyes that had hitherto been
so responsive to each glance of his own. _Why_ did she think that he was
ill? She who knew well his every mood. _Was he mad?_ Did this thing of
the poisoned cup that rolled to her sandal's tip--and her eyes, her
hating eyes, mean that his--no, it could not be. He fumbled among the
papers on the table for a cigarette. He could not find one. He walked to
the huge fireplace and peered near-sightedly at the ashes on the hearth.

"What, what do you want, Jack? Be careful! The fire!" cried his wife.

"Why, I want a cigarette," he said.

She started, as if he had spoken roughly to her. "I will get you some,
wait, sit quietly, I will bring you some," she replied as she hastened
through the small passage-way up the stone steps that led from his
study.

Linton stood with his back still bent, in the posture of a man picking
something from the ground. He did not turn from the fireplace until the
echo of his wife's foot-fall on the stone floors had died away. Then he
straightened himself and said, "Well, I'm damned!" And Linton was not a
man who swore.

* * * * *

A month later the Squire and his wife were on their way to London to
consult the great brain specialist, Doctor Redmond. Linton now believed
that "something" was wrong with him. His wife's anxiety, which she could
no longer conceal, forced him to this conclusion; "something" was wrong.
Until these few last weeks Linton's wife had managed her household with
the care and wisdom of a Chatelaine of mediaeval times. Each day was
planned for certain duties in house or village. She had theories as to
the management and education of the village childr