The woman showed her first sign of weakness.  She began to shake.  There was a curious look of fear in her eyes.

“I can’t leave this place, Sir Everard,” she cried.  “I must stay here!”

“Why?” he demanded.

“Lady Dominey couldn’t do without me,” she answered sullenly.

“That,” he replied, “is for her to decide.  Personally, from enquiries I have made, I believe that you have encouraged in her that ridiculous superstition about the ghost of your son.  I also believe that you have kept alive in her that spirit of unreasonable hatred which she has felt towards me.”

“Unreasonable, you call it?” the woman almost shouted.  “You, who came home to her with the blood on your hands of the man whom, if only you had kept away, she might one day have loved?  Unreasonable, you call it?”

“I have finished what I had to say, Mrs. Unthank,” Dominey declared.  “I am compelled by important business to leave here for two or three days.  On my return I shall embark upon the changes with which I have acquainted you.  In the meantime,” he added, watching a curious change in the woman’s expression, “I have written this morning to Doctor Harrison, asking him to come up this afternoon and to keep Lady Dominey under his personal observation until my return.”

She stood quite still, looking at him.  Then she came a little nearer and leaned forward, as though studying his face.

“Eleven years,” she muttered, “do change many men, but I never knew a man made out of a weakling.”

“I have nothing more to say to you,” Dominey replied, “except to let you know that I am coming to see my wife in the space of a few minutes.”

The motor-horn was already sounding below when Dominey was admitted to his wife’s apartment.  She was dressed in a loose gown of a warm crimson colour, and she had the air of one awaiting his arrival expectantly.  The passion of hatred seemed to have passed from her pale face and from the depths of her strangely soft eyes.  She held out her hands towards him.  Her brows were a little puckered.  The disappointment of a child lurked in her manner.

“You are going away?” she murmured.

“In a very few moments,” he told her.  “I have been waiting to see you for an hour.”

She made a grimace.

“It was Mrs. Unthank.  I think that she hid my things on purpose.  I was so anxious to see you.”

“I want to talk to you about Mrs. Unthank,” he said.  “Should you be very unhappy if I sent her away and found some one younger and kinder to be your companion?”

The idea seemed to be outside the bounds of her comprehension.

“Mrs. Unthank would never go,” she declared.  “She stays here to listen to the voice.  All night long sometimes she waits and listens, and it doesn’t come.  Then she hears it, and she is rested.”

“And you?” he asked.

“I am afraid,” she confessed.  “But then, you see, I am not very strong.”