“If there’s anything important to tell—­yes.  From a quarter to eight.  I shall stay here till I know the state of things.  If there’s recovery, I will go back to town, and wire to-morrow to Lady Ogram that Ii have heard a rumour of Robb’s serious illness, asking for information.  Do you agree?”

Doors were slamming; porters were shouting.  May had only just time to spring into the carriage.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, with her head at the window.  Dyce doffed his hat.  They smiled at each other, May’s visage flushed and agitated, and the train whirled away.

In the carriage awaiting Miss Tomalin at Hollingford station sat Constance Bride.

“A horrible journey!” May exclaimed, taking a seat beside her.  “No seat in a through carriage at St. Pancras.  Had to change at the junction.  Somebody in the train had a fit, or something—­no wonder, with such heat!  But it’s cooler here.  Have you had a storm?”

The footman, who had been looking after luggage, stepped up to the carriage door and spoke to Miss Bride.  He said there was a rumour in the station that Mr. Robb, travelling by this train, had been seized with apoplexy on the way.

“Mr. Robb!” exclaimed Constance.  “Then he was the person you spoke of?”

“I suppose so,” May answered.  “Queer thing!”

They drove off.  Constance gazed straight before her, thinking intently.

“If the attack is fatal,” said May, “we shall have an election at once.”

“Yes,” fell from her companion’s lips mechanically.

“Who will be the Conservative candidate?”

“I have no idea,” answered Constance, still absorbed in her thoughts.

May cast a glance at her, and discovered emotion in the fixed eyes, the set lips.  There was a short silence, then Miss Tomalin spoke as if an amusing thought had struck her.

“You received that American magazine from Mrs. Toplady?  Isn’t it an odd coincidence—­the French book, you know?”

“It didn’t seem to me very striking,” replied Constance, coldly.

“No?  Perhaps not.”  May became careless.  “I hadn’t time to read it myself; I only heard what Mrs. Toplady said about it.”

“There was a certain resemblance between the Frenchman’s phraseology and Mr. Lashmar’s,” said Constance; “but nothing more.  Mr. Lashmar’s system isn’t easy to grasp.  I doubt whether Mrs. Toplady is quite the person to understand it.”

“Perhaps not,” May smiled, raising her chin.  “I must read the article myself.”

“Even then,” rejoined her companion, in a measured tone, “you will hardly be able to decide as to the resemblance of the two theories.”

“Why not?” asked May, sharply.

“Because you have had no opportunity of really studying Mr. Lashmar’s views.”

“Oh, I assure you he has made them perfectly clear to me—­ perfectly.”

“In outline,” said Constance, smiling as one who condescends to a childish understanding.