Hugh’s light-grey eyes gleamed like steel.

“Will you answer my question?” he said curtly.

Lancaster sprang up.

“Diane is in as good health now as ever she was,” he said violently.  And strode out of the room.

During the period of her convalescence Diane, attended by Nurse Maynard, had occupied rooms situated in a distant wing of the house, where the invalid was not likely to be disturbed by the coming and going of other members of the household, and it was with almost the excitement of a schoolgirl coming home for the holidays that, when she was at last released from the doctor’s supervision, she retook possession of her own room.  She superintended joyously the restoration to their accustomed place her various little personal possessions, and finally peeped into her husband’s adjoining room, thinking she heard him moving there.

On the threshold she paused irresolutely, conscious of an odd sense of confusion.  The room was vacant.  But, beyond that, its whole aspect was different somehow, unfamiliar.  Her eyes wandered to the dressing-table.  Instead of holding its usual array of silver-backed brushes and polished shaving tackle, winking in the sunshine, it was empty.  She stared at it blankly.  Then her glance travelled slowly round the room.  It had a strangely untenanted look.  There was no sign of masculine attire left carelessly about—­not a chair or table was a hairbreadth out of its appointed place.

Her hand, resting lightly on the door-handle, gripped it with a sudden tensity.  The next moment she had crossed the room and torn open the doors of the great armoire where Hugh kept his clothes.  This, too, was empty—­shelves and hanger alike.  Impulsively she rang the bell and, when a maid appeared in response, demanded to know the meaning of the alteration.

The girl glanced at her with the veiled curiosity of her class.

“It was made by Sir Hugh’s orders, my lady.”

With an effort, Diane hid the sudden tumult of bewilderment and fear that filled her.  Her dream!  Had it been only a dream?  Or had it been an actual happening—­that terrible little scene with her husband when, standing rigid and unbending beside her bed, he had told her that the birth of their daughter was a just retribution for a union he regarded as a sin?

Memories of their brief year of marriage came surging over her in a torrent—­Catherine’s narrow-minded opposition and disapproval, Hugh’s own moodiness and irritability and, latterly, his not infrequent censure.  There had been times when Diane—­rebuked incessantly—­had fancied she must be the Scarlet Woman herself, or at least a very near relative.  And then had come moments when Hugh, carried away by his ardour, had once more played the lover as he alone knew how, with all the warmth and abandon of those days when he had wooed her in Italy, and Diane would forget her unhappiness and fears in the sure knowledge that she was a passionately beloved woman.