“Who is it?” asked Lady Hartledon, putting the little girl down by the window, and approaching her husband.  But there came no answer.

Whether the silence aroused her suspicions—­whether any look in her husband’s face recalled that evening of terror long ago—­or whether some malicious instinct whispered the truth, can never be known.  Certain it was that the past rose up as in a mirror before Lady Hartledon’s imagination, and she connected this visitor with the former.  She bent over his shoulder to peep at the card; and her husband, startled out of his presence of mind, tore it in two and threw the pieces into the fire.

“Oh, very well!” she exclaimed, mortally offended.  “But you cannot blind me:  it is your mysterious visitor again.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Maude.  It is only someone on business.”

“Then I will go and ask him his business,” she said, moving to the door with angry resolve.

Val was too quick for her.  He placed his back against the door, and lifted his hands in agitation.  It was a great fault of his, or perhaps a misfortune—­for he could not help it—­this want of self-control in moments of emergency.

“Maude, I forbid you to interfere in this; you must not.  For Heaven’s sake, sit down and remain quiet.”

“I’ll see your visitor, and know, at last, what this strange trouble is.  I will, Lord Hartledon.”

“You must not:  do you hear me?” he reiterated with deep emotion, for she was trying to force her way out of the room.  “Maude—­listen—­I do not mean to be harsh, but for your own good I conjure you to be still.  I forbid you, by the obedience you promised me before God, to inquire into or stir in this matter.  It is a private affair of my own, and not yours.  Stay here until I return.”

Maude drew back, as if in compliance; and Lord Hartledon, supposing he had prevailed, quitted the room and closed the door.  He was quite mistaken.  Never had her solemn vows of obedience been so utterly despised; never had the temptation to evil been so rife in her heart.

She unlatched the door and listened.  Lord Hartledon went downstairs and into the library, just as he had done the evening before the christening.  And Lady Hartledon was certain the same man awaited him there.  Ringing the nursery-bell, she took off her slippers, unseen, and hid them under a chair.

“Remain here with the children,” was her order to the nurse who appeared, as she shut the woman into the room.

Creeping down softly she opened the door of the room behind the library, and glided in.  It was a small room, used exclusively by Lord Hartledon, where he kept a heterogeneous collection of things—­papers, books, cigars, pipes, guns, scientific models, anything—­and which no one but himself ever attempted to enter.  The intervening door between that and the library was not quite closed; and Lady Hartledon, cautiously pushed it a little further open.  Wilful, unpardonable disobedience! when he had so strongly forbidden her!  It was the same tall stranger.  He was speaking in low tones, and Lord Hartledon leaned against the wall with a blank expression of face.