“Have you heard about this, Bellamy?”

“No; what?”

“George Caresfoot is dead; killed by a bulldog, or something.  They say he was thrashing the girl he married yesterday, his cousin’s daughter, with a whip, and the dog made for him, and they both fell into the water together and were drowned.  The girl has gone mad.”

“Good heavens, you don’t say so!”

“Yes, I do, though; and I’ll tell you what it is, Bellamy, they say that you and your wife went to Madeira and trumped up a story about her lover’s death in order to take the girl in.  I tell you this as an old friend.”

“What?  I certainly went to Madeira, and I saw young Heigham there, but I never trumped up any story about his death.  I never mentioned him to Angela Caresfoot for two reasons, first, because I have not come across her, and secondly, because I understood that Philip Caresfoot did not wish it.”

“Well, I am glad to hear it, for your sake; but I have just seen Fraser, and he tells me that Lady Bellamy told the girl of this young Heigham’s death in his own presence, and, what is more, he showed me a letter they found in her dress purporting to have been written by him on his death-bed which your wife gave her.”

“Of what Lady Bellamy has or has not said or done, I know nothing.  I have no control over her actions.”

“Well, I should advise you to look into the business, because it will all come out at the inquest,” and they separated.

Sir John drove homewards, thoughtful, but by no means unhappy.  The news of George’s agonizing death was balm to him, he only regretted that he had not been there—­somewhere well out of the way of the dog, up a tree, for instance—­to see it.

As soon as he got home, he sent a message to Lady Bellamy to say he wished to speak to her.  Then he seated himself at his writing-desk, and waited.  Presently he heard his wife’s firm step upon the stairs.  He rubbed his dry hands, and smiled a half frightened, wicked little smile.

“At last,” he said.  “And now for revenge.”

She entered the room, looking rather pale, but calm and commanding as ever.

“So you have come back,” she said.

“Yes.  Have you heard the news? Your flame, George Caresfoot, is dead.”

“I knew that he was dead.  How did he die?”

“Who told you he was dead?”

“No one, I knew it; I told him he would die last night, and I felt him die this morning.  Did she kill him or did Arthur Heigham?”

“Neither, that bulldog flew at him and he fell into the lake.”

“Oh, I suppose Angela set it on.  I told him that she would win.  You remember the picture falling in the study at Isleworth.  It has been a true omen, you see.”

“Angela is mad.  The story is all over the country and travelling like wild-fire.  The letter you forged has been found.  Heigham was down here this morning and has gone again, and you, Lady Bellamy, are a disgraced and ruined woman.”