On my return to Blackwater Park (with the letter of invitation) I found that the doctor’s imbecile treatment of Marian’s case had led to the most alarming results.  The fever had turned to typhus.  Lady Glyde, on the day of my return, tried to force herself into the room to nurse her sister.  She and I had no affinities of sympathy—­she had committed the unpardonable outrage on my sensibilities of calling me a spy—­she was a stumbling-block in my way and in Percival’s—­but, for all that, my magnanimity forbade me to put her in danger of infection with my own hand.  At the same time I offered no hindrance to her putting herself in danger.  If she had succeeded in doing so, the intricate knot which I was slowly and patiently operating on might perhaps have been cut by circumstances.  As it was, the doctor interfered and she was kept out of the room.

I had myself previously recommended sending for advice to London.  This course had been now taken.  The physician, on his arrival, confirmed my view of the case.  The crisis was serious.  But we had hope of our charming patient on the fifth day from the appearance of the typhus.  I was only once absent from Blackwater at this time—­when I went to London by the morning train to make the final arrangements at my house in St. John’s Wood, to assure myself by private inquiry that Mrs. Clements had not moved, and to settle one or two little preliminary matters with the husband of Madame Rubelle.  I returned at night.  Five days afterwards the physician pronounced our interesting Marian to be out of all danger, and to be in need of nothing but careful nursing.  This was the time I had waited for.  Now that medical attendance was no longer indispensable, I played the first move in the game by asserting myself against the doctor.  He was one among many witnesses in my way whom it was necessary to remove.  A lively altercation between us (in which Percival, previously instructed by me, refused to interfere) served the purpose in view.  I descended on the miserable man in an irresistible avalanche of indignation, and swept him from the house.

The servants were the next encumbrances to get rid of.  Again I instructed Percival (whose moral courage required perpetual stimulants), and Mrs. Michelson was amazed, one day, by hearing from her master that the establishment was to be broken up.  We cleared the house of all the servants but one, who was kept for domestic purposes, and whose lumpish stupidity we could trust to make no embarrassing discoveries.  When they were gone, nothing remained but to relieve ourselves of Mrs. Michelson—­a result which was easily achieved by sending this amiable lady to find lodgings for her mistress at the sea-side.

The circumstances were now exactly what they were required to be.  Lady Glyde was confined to her room by nervous illness, and the lumpish housemaid (I forget her name) was shut up there at night in attendance on her mistress.  Marian, though fast recovering, still kept her bed, with Mrs. Rubelle for nurse.  No other living creatures but my wife, myself, and Percival were in the house.  With all the chances thus in our favour I confronted the next emergency, and played the second move in the game.