It was midnight when Lady Hartledon returned home.  She asked after her husband, and heard that he was in the breakfast-room with Mr. Carr.

She went towards it with a stealthy step, and opened the door very softly.  Had Lord Hartledon not been talking, they might, however, have heard her.  The table was strewed with thick musty folios; but they appeared to be done with, and Mr. Carr was leaning back in his chair with folded arms.

“I have had nothing but worry all my life,” Val was saying; “but compared with this, whatever has gone before was as nothing.  When I think of Maude, I feel as if I should go mad.”

“You must quietly separate from her,” said Mr. Carr.

A slight movement.  Mr. Carr stopped, and Lord Hartledon looked round.  Lady Hartledon was close behind him.

“Percival, what is the matter?” she asked, turning her back on Mr. Carr, as if ignoring his presence.  “What bad news did that parson bring you?—­a friend, I presume, of Dr. Ashton’s.”

They had both risen.  Lord Hartledon glanced at Mr. Carr, the perspiration breaking out on his brow.  “It—­it was not a parson,” he said, in his innate adherence to truth.

“I ask you, Lord Hartledon,” she resumed, having noted the silent appeal to Mr. Carr.  “It requires no third person to step between man and wife.  Will you come upstairs with me?”

Words and manner were too pointed, and Mr. Carr hastily stacked the books, and carried them to a side-table.

“Allow these to remain here until to-morrow,” he said to Lord Hartledon; “I’ll send my clerk for them.  I’m off now; it’s later than I thought.  Good-night, Lady Hartledon.”

He went out unmolested; Lady Hartledon did not answer him; Val nodded his good-night.

“Are you not ashamed to face me, Lord Hartledon?” she then demanded.  “I overheard what you were saying.”

“Overheard what we were saying?” he repeated, gazing at her with a scared look.

“I heard that insidious man give you strange advice—­’you must quietly separate from her,’ he said; meaning from me.  And you listened patiently, and did not knock him down!”

“Maude!  Maude! was that all you heard?”

“All! I should think it was enough.”

“Yes, but—­” He broke off, so agitated as scarcely to know what he was saying.  Rallying himself somewhat, he laid his hand upon the white cloak covering her shoulders.

“Do not judge him harshly, Maude.  Indeed he is a true friend to you and to me.  And I have need of one just now.”

“A true friend!—­to advise that!  I never heard of anything so monstrous.  You must be out of your mind.”

“No, I am not, Maude.  Should—­disgrace”—­he seemed to hesitate for a word—­“fall upon me, it must touch you as connected with me.  I know, Maude, that he was thinking of your best and truest interests.”

“But to talk of separating husband and wife!”