“Yes.  Has Mr. Thresk arrived yet?”

She tried to control her face, to speak in a careless and indifferent voice, but she was giddy and the room whirled before her eyes.

“Yes, madam,” the butler answered; and it seemed to Stella Ballantyne that once more she stood in the dock and heard the verdict spoken.  Only this time it had gone against her.  That queer old shuffling butler became a figure of doom, his thin and piping voice uttered her condemnation.  For here without her knowledge was Henry Thresk and she was bidden to meet him with the Pettifers for witnesses.  But it was Henry Thresk who had saved her before.  She clung to that fact now.

“Mr. Thresk arrived a few minutes ago.”

Just before old Hazlewood had come forward out of the house to welcome her!  No wonder he was in such high spirits!  Very likely all that great show of kindliness and welcome was made only to keep her in the garden for a few necessary moments.

“Where is Mr. Thresk now?” she asked.

“In his room, madam.”

“You are quite sure?”

“Quite.”

“Will you take this note to him, Hubbard?” and she held it out to the butler.

“Certainly, madam.”

“Will you take it at once?  Give it into his hands, please.”

Hubbard took the note and went out of the room.  Never had he seemed to her so dilatory and slow.  She stared at the door as though her sight could pierce the panels.  She imagined him climbing the stairs with feet which loitered more at each fresh step.  Some one would surely stop him and ask for whom the letter was intended.  She went to the door which led into the hall, opened it and listened.  No one was descending the staircase and she heard no voices.  Then above her Hubbard knocked upon a door, a latch clicked as the door was opened, a hollow jarring sound followed as the door was sharply closed.  Stella went back into the room.  The letter had been delivered; at this moment Henry Thresk was reading it; and with a sinking heart she began to speculate in what spirit he would receive its message.  Henry Thresk!  The unhappy woman bestirred herself to remember him.  He had grown dim to her of late.  How much did she know of him? she asked herself.  Once years ago there had been a month during which she had met him daily.  She had given her heart to him, yet she had learned little or nothing of the man within the man’s frame.  She had not even made his acquaintance.  That had been proved to her one memorable morning upon the top of Bignor Hill, when humiliation had so deeply seared her soul that only during this last month had it been healed.  In the great extremities of her life Henry Thresk had decided, not she, and he was a stranger to her.  She beat her poor wings in vain against that ironic fact.  Never had he done what she had expected.  On Bignor Hill, in the Law Court at Bombay, he had equally surprised her.  Now once more he held her destinies in his hand.  What would he decide?  What had he decided?