The door opened and Hallin came in.  He had been suffering of late, and much confined to the house.  But the news of the murder had made a deep and painful impression upon him, and he had been eagerly acquainting himself with the facts.  Miss Raeburn, whose kindness ran with unceasing flow along the channels she allowed it, was greatly attached to him in spite of his views, and she now threw herself upon him for sympathy in the matter of the wedding.  In any grievance that concerned Aldous she counted upon him, and her shrewd eyes had plainly perceived that he had made no great friendship with Marcella.

“I am very sorry for Aldous,” he said at once; “but I understand her perfectly.  So does Aldous.”

Miss Raeburn was angrily silent.  But when Lord Maxwell, who had been talking with Aldous, came in, he proved, to her final discomfiture, to be very much of the same opinion.

“My dear,” he said wearily as he dropped into his chair, his old face grey and pinched, “this thing is too terrible—­the number of widows and orphans that night’s work will make before the end breaks my heart to think of.  It will be a relief not to have to consider festivities while these men are actually before the courts.  What I am anxious about is that Marcella should not make herself ill with excitement.  The man she is interested in will be hung, must be hung; and with her somewhat volatile, impulsive nature—­”

He spoke with old-fashioned discretion and measure.  Then quickly he pulled himself up, and, with some trivial question or other, offered his arm to Lady Winterbourne, for Aldous had just come in, and dinner was ready.

CHAPTER XII.

Nearly three weeks passed—­short flashing weeks, crowded with agitations, inward or outward, for all the persons of this story.

After the inquiry before the magistrates—­conducted, as she passionately thought, with the most marked animus on the part of the bench and police towards the prisoners—­had resulted in the committal for trial of Hurd and his five companions, Marcella wrote Aldous Raeburn a letter which hurt him sorely.

“Don’t come over to see me for a little while,” it ran.  “My mind is all given over to feelings which must seem to you—­which, I know, do seem to you—­unreasonable and unjust.  But they are my life, and when they are criticised, or even treated coldly, I cannot bear it.  When you are not there to argue with, I can believe, most sincerely, that you have a right to see this matter as you do, and that it is monstrous of me to expect you to yield to me entirely in a thing that concerns your sense of public duty.  But don’t come now—­not before the trial.  I will appeal to you if I think you can help me.  I know you will if you can.  Mr. Wharton keeps me informed of everything.  I enclose his last two letters, which will show you the line he means to take up with regard to some of the evidence.”