And suddenly his mind, as he stood waiting, plunged into matters which were not shadows—­but palpitating realities. His son!—­whom he was to see on the morrow.  He believed the word of the woman who had been his wife.  Looking back on her character with all its faults, he did not think she would have been capable of a malicious lie, at such a moment.  Forty miles away then, there was a human being waiting and suffering, to whom his life had given life.  Excitement—­yearning—­beat through his pulses.  He already felt the boy in his arms; was already conscious of the ardour with which every device of science should be called in, to help restore to him, not only his son’s body, but his mind.

There was a low tap at the door.  He recalled his thoughts and went to open it.

“Helena!—­my dear!”

He took her hand and led her in.  She had changed her white dress of the afternoon for a little black frock, one of her mourning dresses for her mother, with a bunch of flame-coloured roses at her waist.  The semi-transparent folds of the black brought out the brilliance of the white neck and shoulders, the pale carnations of the face, the beautiful hair, following closely the contours of the white brow.  Even through all his pain and preoccupation, Buntingford admired; was instantly conscious of the sheer pleasure of her beauty.  But it was the pleasure of an artist, an elder brother—­a father even.  Her mother was in his mind, and the strong affection he had begun to feel for his ward was shot through and through by the older tenderness.

“Sit there, dear,” he said, pushing forward a chair.  “Has Geoffrey told you anything?”

“No.  He said you wanted to tell me something yourself, and he would speak to the others.”

She was very pale, and the hand he touched was cold.  But she was perfectly self-possessed.

He sat down in front of her collecting his thoughts.

“Something has happened, Helena, to-day—­this very evening—­which must—­I fear—­alter all your plans and mine.  The poor woman whom Geoffrey saw in the wood, whose bag you found, was just able to make her escape, when you and Geoffrey landed.  She wandered about the rest of the night, and in the early morning she asked for shelter—­being evidently ill—­at the Rectory, but it was not till this evening that she made a statement which induced them to send for me.  Helena!—­what did your mother ever tell you about my marriage?”

“She told me very little—­only that you had married someone abroad—­when you were studying in Paris—­and that she was dead.”

Buntingford covered his eyes with his hand.

“I told your mother, Helena, all I knew.  I concealed nothing from her—­both what I knew—­and what I didn’t know.”

He paused, to take from his pocket a small leather case and to extract from it a newspaper cutting.  He handed it to her.  It was from the first column of the Times, was dated 1907, and contained the words:—­“On July 19th at Lyons, France, Anna, wife of Philip Bliss, aged 28.”