A dreary day, with a leaden sky overhead and the monotonous patter of incessant rain against the window panes.

Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse had just come downstairs, and opening the door which lead from the hall to the small withdrawing-room on the right, he saw Mistress de Chavasse, half-sitting, half-crouching in one of the stiff-backed chairs, which she had drawn close to the fire.

There was a cheerful blaze on the hearth, and the room itself—­being small—­always looked cozier than any other at Acol Court.

Nevertheless, Editha’s face was pallid and drawn, and she stared into the fire with eyes which seemed aglow with anxiety and even with fear.  Her cloak was tied loosely about her shoulders, and at sight of Sir Marmaduke she started, then rising hurriedly, she put her hood over her head, and went towards the door.

“Ah! my dear Editha!” quoth her brother-in-law, lightly greeting her, “up betimes like the lark I see....  Are you going without?” he added as she made a rapid movement to brush past him and once more made for the door.

“Yes!” she replied dully, “I must fain move about ... tire myself out if I can ...  I am consumed with anxiety.”

“Indeed?” he retorted blandly, “why should you be anxious?  Everything is going splendidly ... and to-night at the latest a fortune of nigh on L500,000 will be placed in my hands by a fond and adoring woman.”

He caught the glitter in her eyes, that suggestion of power and of unspoken threats which she had adopted since the episode in the Bath Street house.  For an instant an ugly frown further disfigured his sour face:  but this frown was only momentary, it soon gave way to a suave smile.  He took her hand and lightly touched it with his lips.

“After which, my dear Editha,” he said, “I shall be able to fulfill those obligations, which my heart originally dictated.”

She seemed satisfied at this assurance, for she now spoke in less aggressive tones: 

“Are you so sure of the girl, Marmaduke?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied, his thoughts reverting to a day spent at Dover nearly three months ago, when a knot was tied of which fair Editha was not aware, but which rendered Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse very sure of a fortune.

“Yet you have oft told me that Sue’s love for her mysterious prince had vastly cooled of late!” urged Editha still anxiously.

“Why yes! forsooth!” he retorted grimly, “Sue’s sentimental fancy for the romantic exile hath gone the way of all such unreasoning attachments; but she has ventured too far to draw back....  And she will not draw back,” he concluded significantly.

“Have a care, Marmaduke! ... the girl is more willful than ye wot of....  You may strain at a cord until it snap.”

“Pshaw!” he said, with a shrug of his wide shoulders, “you are suffering from vapors, my dear Editha ... or you would grant me more knowledge of how to conduct mine own affairs....  Do you remember, perchance, that the bulk of Sue’s fortune will be handed over to her this day?”