Eliza Hamlyn stood there lost in thought.  The nurse came in to take the child; Mr. Hamlyn had gone to his room to dress for dinner.

“Have you seen the woman who has been standing out there yesterday evening and this, Penelope?” she asked of the nurse, speaking upon impulse.

“Oh, yes, ma’am.  She has been there all the blessed afternoon.  She came into the garden to talk to us.”

“Came into the garden to talk to you?” repeated Mrs. Hamlyn.  “What did she talk about?”

“Chiefly about Master Walter, ma’am.  She seemed to be much taken with him; she clasped him in her arms and kissed him, and said how old was he, and was he difficult to manage, and that he had his father’s beautiful brown eyes—­”

Penelope stopped abruptly.  Mistaking the hard stare her mistress was unconsciously giving her for one of displeasure, she hastened to excuse herself.  The fact was, Mrs. Hamlyn’s imagination was beginning to run riot.

“I couldn’t help her speaking to me, ma’am, or her kissing the child; she took me by surprise.  That, was all she said—­except that she asked whether you were likely to be going into the country soon, away from the house here.  She didn’t stay five minutes with us, but went back to stand by the railings again.”

“Did she speak as a lady or as a common person?” quite fiercely demanded Mrs. Hamlyn.  “Is she young?—­good-looking?”

“Oh, I think she is a lady,” replied the girl, her accent decisive.  “And she’s young, as far as I could see, but she had a thick veil over her face.  Her hair is lovely, just like silken threads of pale gold,” concluded Penelope as Mr. Hamlyn’s step was heard.

He took his wife into the dining-room, apologising for being late.  She, giving full range to the fancies she had called up, heard him in silence with a hardening, haughty face.

“Philip, you know who that woman is,” she suddenly exclaimed during a temporary absence of Japhet from the dining-room.  “What is it that she wants with you?”

“I!” he returned, in a surprise very well feigned if not real.  “What woman?  Do you mean the one who was standing out there yesterday?”

“You know I do.  She has been there again—­all the blessed afternoon, as Penelope expresses it.  Asking questions of the girl about you—­and me—­and Walter; and saying the child has your beautiful brown eyes. I ask you who is she?”

Mr. Hamlyn laid down his knife and fork to gaze at his wife.  He looked quite at sea.

“Eliza, I assure you I know nothing about it.  Or about her.”

“Indeed!  Don’t you think it may be some acquaintance, old or new?  Possibly someone you knew in the days gone by—­come over seas to see whether you are yet in the land of the living?  She has wonderful hair, which looks like spun gold.”

All in a moment, as the half-mocking words left her lips, some idea seemed to flash across Philip Hamlyn, bringing with it distress and fear.  His face turned to a burning red and then grew white as the hue of the grave.