CHRIS had gone out that morning without seeing either Miss Chester or his wife. His first passionate bitterness and anger against Feathers had passed, leaving him more wretched than he had ever been in his life, as he remembered their long friendship.

He who had never known trouble hitherto was almost crushed to the earth by it now; and the hardest part of it all to bear was the knowledge that to a large extent he and his selfishness had been to blame.

He told himself that he had no wish to see Feathers any more, and yet it was with the sneaking hope that he would find him there that he went to the club after having mooned about the West End all the morning.

He made a pretense of lunch, and drank three whiskies and sodas, which made him feel quarrelsome, and he had just decided that he would hunt up Aston Knight and tell him what he thought of him, when one of the waiters came to him in the smoking-room.

"If you please, sir, you are wanted on the 'phone; very urgent, if you please."

Chris was up in a second. There was only one thing in the world that could be urgent to him, he knew, and that was if it concerned Marie.

It was Miss Chester's maid, Greyson, who answered his impatient hullo, and his heart seemed to stop beating as he could hear the distress in her voice.

"Oh, sir, could you come home, please? I've been trying to find you all the morning. I rang up Mr. Daker's rooms, but you weren't there."

Chris struck in roughly:

281 "Well, I'm here now. What is it? Can't you speak up?"

"It's Miss Chester, sir! She was all right when I called her this morning, but when I went up again . . ."

Chris caught his breath with a sob of relief. Only Aunt Madge! Thank God nothing was wrong with Marie.

"I'll come at once," he said, not waiting to hear any more. "Send for a doctor, and I'll come at once."

He hung up the receiver and sent for a taxi. He was home in less than ten minutes, to find the doctor's car at the gate. He ran up the steps hastily and was met by Greyson, who was crying bitterly.

"Well, how is she?" he asked.

"She's dead, sir," she told him, sobbing. "She was dead when I 'phoned you. I tried to tell you on the 'phone, but you wouldn't let me."

"Dead!" The news came as an awful shock to Chris. He stood quite still, his heart slowing down sickeningly; then he went on and up the stairs to Miss Chester's room.

He had expected to find Marie there, but only the doctor and housekeeper stood by the bed.

Miss Chester was lying just as if she were asleep, her white hair parted smoothly on either side of her face, and a little smile on her lips, as if behind her closed lids she was looking into the future and could see something that pleased her well.

Chris stood silently looking down at her. He had been very fond of her and she had always been very good to him. There was an uncomfortable tightness in his throat.

The housekeeper was sobbing quietly.

Chris looked at her. "Where's—my wife?" he asked in a whisper.

She shook her head.

"I don't know, sir; she went out almost directly after breakfast. Oh—the poor lamb, it will break her heart."

When Chris turned away, she followed him on to the Landing. She was carrying a big white woolly shawl over her arm.

Chris touched it. "Was she still working?" he asked. He knew it was 282 the shawl without which he had hardly ever seen Miss Chester.

The woman broke into fresh tears. She held the shawl up for his inspection.

"It's finished, sir! She must have put the last stitch into it just before she died, because Greyson said she was sitting up working at it when she called her this morning. She was so anxious to get it made—she always told me it was for Marie—for . . ."

"That will do," said Chris. He went downstairs and waited about till the doctor came down.

"There was nothing to be done," the doctor told him. "If I had been sitting beside her when it happened I could not have done anything." He looked at Chris' pale face sympathetically. "It's been a shock to you," he said. "And your wife—I am afraid she will feel it very much."

"Yes—especially as she was out." Chris spoke constrainedly. He dreaded having to break the news to Marie.

The afternoon went by, and she did not come. Greyson did not know where she had gone.

"Nobody rang her up?" Chris asked, with sudden apprehension.

"No, sir; Mr. Dakers rang up twice before lunch, but he asked for you."

Chris went to the 'phone and gave Feathers' number, but Feathers had gone out in the car, so they told him, and had left no word as to when he would return.

Greyson brought Chris some tea in the smoking-room, but he left it untouched.

"There are some letters, sir," she said, as she came to take the tray away, but Chris did not even glance at them.

His heart was racked with anxiety for his wife. He wished he had insisted on seeing her that morning and he blamed himself bitterly.

Evening came, but no Marie.

"I don't want any dinner," Chris said, when the servants begged him to eat. He wandered in and out of the house restlessly. He had rung up everyone where he thought there was the slightest chance of 283 finding Marie, but nobody had seen her. He had rung Feathers twenty times without result.

It was approaching seven o'clock before his eyes fell on the little heap of letters on the smoking-room table, and from sheer restlessness he took them up and opened them one by one.

A bill—a note from a man asking him to play golf—a letter in Miss Chester's writing, sent back from Scotland, and a note without a stamp.

He was about to throw the last listlessly aside as of no interest, when he recognized Feathers' writing.

With his heart racing, he broke open the flap and for a moment everything swam before his eyes, so that he could not read a word.

Dear Chris,—I rang you this morning, but they said you were out, so I am writing and sending the note by hand, as I want you to get it as soon as you come in. You will know by the time you receive this that your wife has left the house. If you had not come to my rooms last night and told me what you did, God only knows in what a tragedy we might have found ourselves. This morning I did my best to set things right, but I was too late, so am writing this note to you. You know the Yellow Sheaf on the Oxford road near Somerton Lock? If you will be there this evening at half-past seven you will find Mrs. Lawless. I know this is the end of our friendship, and through my fault My only excuse is that I thought I was a strong man, but perhaps we are all weak when it comes to the test— Feathers.

Half-past seven! It was nearly seven now, and Somerton Lock was forty miles away.

Chris never knew what happened during the next hour. He only came to himself again as he was driving like a madman through the darkening night, the cool breeze stinging his face.

She had gone—and with Feathers! His best friend had failed him, had lied to him and dishonored him! There was murder in Chris' heart as he stared ahead into the darkness and tried to control his thoughts.

284 Twice he took the wrong road, and had to turn back, cursing and praying, and almost sobbing in his fear.

The darkness seemed to deepen in order to hamper him. As he neared the river a slight dip in the road plunged him into a thick mist that was almost a fog.

He had to slow down—could hardly see a yard ahead of him.

Once he stopped, and with the aid of a lamp from the car found a signpost.

Somerton Lock—one mile . . .

Almost there! He tried to believe it was not too late, tried to remember that for all these years Feathers had been his loyal friend. Once the car swerved under his shaking hand, and he had to stop dead with grinding brakes, thinking he was off the road.

It was then that he heard steps running up the road towards him, and a man's voice calling through the mist and darkness.

He started the car again impatiently, but as he did so a man's figure came out of the gloom into the uncertain light of his lamps.

"There's a car in the river . . . For God's sake, sir, come. It's a mile from the lock and not a soul nearer! Lost the road in this mist they must have done." He read the refusal in Chris' face, and he broke out again passionately, "Oh, for God's sake, sir! There's a woman in it!"

As if in corroboration of his statement, a frantic cry came faintly to them through the mist.

Chris hesitated no longer. He caught up a strap which lay at the bottom of the car and, dragging a lamp from its hook, ran back along the road with the man.

"Are you sure?" he asked breathlessly as they ran. "How can a car have got into the river?"

They were at the water's edge now and holding the lamp low down, they could see the wheel tracks through the damp, short grass on the bank and the broken rushes where the car had taken its plunge.

The river was deep there, but if it had been half the depth the danger would have been almost as great, for Chris knew that the car 285 would in all probability have turned over had it been going even at a moderate speed. He flung off his coat and, making a cup of his hands, shouted into the darkness:

"Hullo! Hullo!" And the same terrified voice cried in answer, only weaker now, and choking, as if already the silent flowing water had begun to take its toll.

Chris caught up the strap. He fastened one end round his wrist and gave the other to the man, who stood shaking and helpless beside him:

"Here! Take this, and don't let it go! I'm going in!"

He took the plunge through the darkness blindly. The water was icy cold as it closed over his head, and he could feel the rushes and weeds clutching at him as he struggled up to the surface.

He shouted again breathlessly, and the faint cry came again close beside him this time, it seemed.

He struck out desperately, every nerve strained, and then suddenly his hand came into contact with something which at first he thought was a man's arm, but it seemed to slip beneath the water before he could grip it.

He groped round desperately, cursing the darkness, and his fingers caught in the soft silkiness of a woman's hair.

There was no mistaking it this time. Twisting it anyhow about his wrist and arm so she could not slip from him, he turned for the bank again, guided by the strap which still held.

He was hampered by his clothes and the weight of the woman, though from what he could tell she seemed small and light enough, and he was almost exhausted by the time he reached the bank.

There were several figures there now, and a lantern flashed a bright light into his face as willing hands dragged him ashore with his burden.

He fell heavily as soon as he reached the bank and lay prone for a moment, panting and exhausted.

Someone came to his help, but he waved him away.

"I'm all right—there's another out there—a man, I think."

286 Presently he struggled to his feet. The mist seemed to have risen a little, and above it a pale moon gleamed faintly down on to the silent river.

A small boat had been pushed off from the bank, and Chris could hear the splash of sculls through the mist.

A group of men were bending over the figure of a girl lying on the bank—the girl he had pulled from the water, Chris supposed. He drew a little nearer, and looked down at her as she lay there, the light of the lantern falling on her upturned face. Then he gave a great cry of agony and fell on his knees beside her, clutching her limp body with desperate hands for the girl was his own wife—Marie Celeste.

287