I was so moved by one thing and another that I hardly noticed that Gurnard had come into the room.  I had not seen him since the night when he had dined with the Duc de Mersch at Churchill’s, but he seemed so part of the emotion, of the frame of mind, that he slid noiselessly into the scene and hardly surprised me.  I was called out of the room—­someone desired to see me, and I passed, without any transition of feeling, into the presence of an entire stranger—­a man who remains a voice to me.  He began to talk to me about the state of my aunt’s health.  He said she was breaking up; that he begged respectfully to urge that I would use my influence to take her back to London to consult Sir James—­I, perhaps, living in the house and not having known my aunt for very long, might not see; but he ...  He was my aunt’s solicitor.  He was quite right; my aunt was breaking up, she had declined visibly in the few hours that I had been away from her.  She had been doing business with this man, had altered her will, had seen Mr. Gurnard; and, in some way had received a shock that seemed to have deprived her of all volition.  She sat with her head leaning back, her eyes closed, the lines of her face all seeming to run downward.

“It is obvious to me that arrangements ought to be made for your return to England,” the lawyer said, “whatever engagements Miss Granger or Mr. Etchingham Granger or even Mr. Gurnard may have made.”

I wondered vaguely what the devil Mr. Gurnard could have to say in the matter, and then Miss Granger herself came into the room.

“They want me,” my aunt said in a low voice, “they have been persuading me ... to go back ... to Etchingham, I think you said, Meredith.”

I became conscious that I wanted to return to England, wanted it very much, wanted to be out of this; to get somewhere where there was stability and things that one could understand.  Everything here seemed to be in a mist, with the ground trembling underfoot.

“Why ...”  Miss Granger’s verdict came, “we can go when you like.  To-morrow.”

Things immediately began to shape themselves on these unexpected lines, a sort of bustle of departure to be in the air.  I was employed to conduct the lawyer as far as the porter’s lodge, a longish traverse.  He beguiled the way by excusing himself for hurrying back to London.

“I might have been of use; in these hurried departures there are generally things.  But, you will understand, Mr.—­Mr. Etchingham; at a time like this I could hardly spare the hours that it cost me to come over.  You would be astonished what a deal of extra work it gives and how far-spreading the evil is.  People seem to have gone mad.  Even I have been astonished.”

“I had no idea,” I said.

“Of course not, of course not—­no one had.  But, unless I am much mistaken—­much—­there will have to be an enquiry, and people will be very lucky who have had nothing to do with it ...”