“No, please!” she said, a slight flush on her face.  “Don’t call him in again!  Really, it is of no consequence.”

But in spite of this assertion her uneasiness regarding her husband grew rapidly from that moment—­an uneasiness that she was powerless to control or hide.  Could it be—­was it possible?—­that he meant to leave her thus abandoned to the pitying kindness of strangers?  She could hardly believe it.  And yet—­and yet—­he had done un-heard-of things before.  There were times, times that had become more and more frequent of late, when she doubted his sanity.  Those devilish moods of his, whither were they tending?  Was he in the grip of one of them now?  And if so—­if so—­what would happen to her?  What could she do?

As the hours passed, the torture of suspense so worked upon her that she began to grow feverish.  The afternoon was waning and still no word had come.

She tried to reassure herself again and again, but each failure added to her distress.

“You mustn’t fret, child,” said Mrs. Errol gently, when she brought her tea.  “It’s the worst thing possible.  Come, come!  What is it?”

Anne tried to tell her, but could not.  The very utterance of her fears was more than she could accomplish in her present state.  Words failed her.

Mrs. Errol said no more, but presently she went quietly away, leaving her alone in the firelight, chafing but impotent.

She was soon back again, however, and a muffled word on the threshold told Anne that she was not alone.  She turned her head sharply on the pillow regardless of wrenched muscles, hoping against hope.  But she looked in vain for her husband’s tall figure, and a sigh that was almost a groan escaped her.  It was Nap, slim, upright, and noiseless, who stepped from behind Mrs. Errol and came to her bedside.

He stooped a little and took her quivering hand, holding it in both his own so that his fingers pressed upon her pulse.

“The mater thought you would like to speak to me,” he said.

She looked up at him with eyes of piteous entreaty.  She was long past any thought of expediency so far as he was concerned.  It seemed only natural in her trouble to turn to him for help.  Had he not helped her before?  Besides, she knew that he understood things that she could not utter.

“Oh, Nap,” she said admitting him unconsciously in her extremity to an intimacy she would never have dreamed of according him in any less urgent circumstances, “I am greatly troubled about my husband.  You said he would come to me, but—­he hasn’t come!”

“I know he hasn’t,” Nap said.  He spoke quietly, but she was aware of a certain grimness in his speech.  “I shouldn’t worry if I were you.  It won’t help you any.  Is there anyone else you would like sent for?”

“I have—­no one else,” she said, her voice quivering beyond her control.  “How can I lie here and not worry?”

“Lord bless the child!” said Mrs. Errol vigorously.  “What is there to worry about, anyway?”