This was about three o’clock in the afternoon, but so protracted and anxious was the case of Lady Colford that I did not reach home again till eight.  Having swallowed a little food, for I was thoroughly exhausted, I went upstairs to see my wife.  Entering the room softly I found that she was asleep, and that the nurse also was dozing on the sofa in the dressing-room.  Fearing to disturb them, I kissed her lips, and going downstairs returned at once to Sir Thomas Colford’s house, where I spent the entire night in attendance on his wife.

When I came home again about eight o’clock on the following morning it was to find Sir John Bell awaiting me in the consulting-room.  A glance at his face told me that there was something dreadfully wrong.

“What is it?” I asked.

“What is it?  Why, what I called after you yesterday, only you wouldn’t stop to listen, and I haven’t known where to find you since.  It’s puerperal fever, and Heaven knows what gave it to her, for I don’t.  I thought so yesterday, and this morning I am sure of it.”

“Puerperal fever,” I muttered, “then I am ruined, whatever happens to Emma.”

“Don’t talk like that, man,” answered Sir John, “she has a capital constitution, and, I daresay, we shall pull her through.”

“You don’t understand.  I have been attending Lady Colford, going straight from Emma’s room to her.”

Sir John whistled.  “Oh, indeed.  Certainly, that’s awkward.  Well, we must hope for the best, and, look you here, when a fellow calls out to you another time just you stop to listen.”

To dwell on all that followed would serve no good purpose, and indeed what is the use of setting down the details of so much forgotten misery?  In a week my beloved wife was dead, and in ten days Lady Colford had followed her into the darkness.  Then it was, that to complete my own destruction, I committed an act of folly, for, meeting Sir John Bell, in my mad grief I was fool enough to tell him I knew that my wife’s death, and indirectly that of Lady Colford, were due to his improper treatment and neglect of precautions.

I need not enter into the particulars, but this in fact was the case.

He did not say much in answer to my accusation, but merely replied:—­

“I make allowances for you; but, Dr. Therne, it is time that somebody taught you that people’s reputations cannot be slandered with impunity.  Instead of attacking me I should recommend you to think of defending yourself.”

Very soon I learned the meaning of this hint.  I think it was within a week of my wife’s funeral that I heard that Sir Thomas Colford, together with all his relations and those of the deceased lady, were absolutely furious with me.  Awaking from my stupor of grief, I wrote a letter to Sir Thomas expressing my deep regret at the misfortune that I had been the innocent means of bringing upon him.  To this letter I received a reply by hand, scrawled upon half a sheet of notepaper.  It ran:—­