“Sit down, Anne, whilst I give you the substance of the tale.  Not its details until I am more myself, and that voice”—­pointing to the next room—­“is not sounding in my ears.  You shall hear all later; at least, as much as I know myself; I have never quite believed in it, and it has been to me throughout as a horrible dream.”

Indeed Mr. Carr seemed to be having no inconsiderable amount of trouble, to judge by the explosions of wrath on the part of the dowager.

She sat down as he told her, her face turned from him, rebellious at having to listen, but curious yet.  Lord Hartledon stood by the mantelpiece and shaded his eyes with his hand.

“Send your thoughts into the past, Anne; you may remember that an accident happened to me in Scotland.  It was before you and I were engaged, or it would not have happened.  Or, let me say, it might not; for young men are reckless, and I was no better than others.  Heaven have mercy on their follies!”

“The accident might not have happened?”

“I do not speak of the accident.  I mean what followed.  When out shooting I nearly blew off my arm.  I was carried to the nearest medical man’s, a Dr. Mair’s, and remained there; for it was not thought safe to move me; they feared inflammation, and they feared locked-jaw.  My father was written to, and came; and when he left after the danger was over he made arrangements with Dr. Mair to keep me on, for he was a skilful man, and wished to perfect the cure.  I thought the prolonged stay in the strange, quiet house worse than all the rest.  That feeling wore off; we grow reconciled to most conditions; and things became more tolerable as I grew better and joined the household.  There was a wild, clever, random young man staying there, the doctor’s assistant—­George Gordon; and there was also a young girl, Agnes Waterlow.  I used to wonder what this Agnes did there, and one day asked the old housekeeper; she said the young lady was there partly that the doctor might watch her health, partly because she was a relative of his late wife’s, and had no home.”

He paused, as if in thought, but soon continued.

“We grew very intimate; I, Gordon, and Miss Waterlow.  Neither of them was the person I should have chosen for an intimacy; but there was, in a sense, no help for it, living together.  Agnes was a wild, free, rather coarse-natured girl, and Gordon drank.  That she fell in love with me there’s no doubt—­and I grew to like her quite well enough to talk nonsense to her.  Whether any plot was laid between her and Gordon to entrap me, or whether what happened arose in the recklessness of the moment, I cannot decide to this hour.  It was on my twenty-first birthday; I was almost well again; we had what the doctor called a dinner, Gordon a jollification, and Agnes a supper.  It was late when we sat down to it, eight o’clock; and there was a good deal of feasting and plenty of wine.  The doctor was called out afterwards to a patient several miles distant,