She could bear things no longer.  Tristram evidently saw she had some secret trouble, she would get her uncle to release her from her promise, as far as her husband was concerned at least,—­she hated mysteries, and if it had annoyed him for her to be out late she would tell him the truth—­and about Mirko, and everything.

Evidently he had been very much annoyed at that, but this was the first time he had even suggested he had noticed she was troubled about anything, except that day in the garden at Wrayth.  Her motives were so perfectly innocent that not the faintest idea even yet dawned upon her that anything she had ever done could even look suspicious.  Tristram was angry with her because she was late, and had insinuated something out of jealousy; men were always jealous, she knew, even if they were perfectly indifferent to a woman.  What really troubled her terribly to-night Was the telegram she found in her room.  She had told the maid to put it there when it came.  It was from Mimo, saying Mirko was feverish again—­really ill, he feared, this time.

So poor Zara spent a night of anguish and prayer, little knowing what the morrow was to bring.

And Tristram went out again to the Turf, and tried to divert his mind away from his troubles.  There was no use in speculating any further, he must wait for an explanation which he would not consent to put off beyond the next morning.

So at last the day of a pitiful tragedy dawned.

Zara got up and dressed early.  She must be ready to go out to try and see Mimo, the moment she could slip away after breakfast, so she came down with her hat on:  she wanted to speak to her uncle alone, and Tristram, she thought, would not be there so early—­only nine o’clock.

“This is energetic, my niece!” Francis Markrute said, but she hardly answered him, and as soon as Turner and the footman had left the room she began at once: 

“Tristram was very angry with me last night because I was out late.  I had gone to obtain news of Mirko, I am very anxious about him and I could give Tristram no explanation.  I ask you to relieve me from my promise not to tell him—­about things.”

The financier frowned.  This was a most unfortunate moment to revive the family skeleton, but he was a very just man and he saw, directly, that suspicion of any sort was too serious a thing to arouse in Tristram’s mind.

“Very well,” he said, “tell him what you think best.  He looks desperately unhappy—­you both do—­are you keeping him at arm’s length all this time, Zara?  Because if so, my child, you will lose him, I warn you.  You cannot treat a man of his spirit like that; he will leave you if you do.”

“I do not want to keep him at arm’s length; he is there of his own will.  I told you at Montfitchet everything is too late—­”

Then the butler entered the room:  “Some one wishes to speak to your ladyship on the telephone, immediately,” he said.