Why should Lady Clifford show so much curiosity about a technical thing like a medical chart? She was told several times a day exactly how her husband was progressing. She seemed to Esther like an importunate child, probing to know the future, which no one could foresee.

As this thought crossed her mind, a quick movement on the part of the figure opposite caused her to halt on the brink of making her presence known. She saw Lady Clifford straighten up and come towards her with a cautious step to the foot of the bed. She saw her lean forward, without touching the foot-board, and gaze with frowning intentness at the ill man's face. His eyes were still closed, he had perhaps fallen asleep; but if he had suddenly chanced to look up Esther thought that his wife's expression would have given him rather a shock. For the moment her beauty was quite altered. With her lip caught between her teeth and her eyes narrowed with a sort of avid, calculating sharpness, she appeared a different person. It was curious how anxiety could change one's appearance.

Suddenly Esther woke up to the fact that Lady Clifford did not realise she was being watched. What an embarrassing thought! Esther had never willingly spied on anyone in her life. Yet spying was surely too harsh a name for it. Eager to atone for her involuntary fault, she removed her hand from the door-knob, meaning to enter boldly. It was too late. At this exact moment the eyes of the watcher by the bed lifted and met hers. Instantly a new expression flashed into them, for the moment they seemed more yellow than grey.

"I did not hear you come in," she murmured with that trace of accent which lent charm to her speech.

"I tried to be quiet because I thought he might be just dropping off."

"Yes, I think he is asleep. I slipped in to have a little look at him."

She glanced again at the motionless figure, then impulsively drew her arm through Esther's and led her towards the far side of the room.

"Tell me, nurse," she whispered with a little confidential appeal.
"Just how long does this illness last? Usually, I mean?"

"About six weeks, as a rule, Lady Clifford," Esther replied, puzzled, thinking surely the questioner must have found out all this.

The French woman gave a sigh which suggested nerves frayed to the breaking point.

"Six weeks! What an endless time to be in suspense!"

"But you won't be in suspense the whole of that time," Esther hastened to assure her. "If he passes a certain point safely, we needn't be anxious. Unless, of course, he should have a relapse."

"Ah, yes, yes, I remember! And when exactly does that point you speak of come?"

"Well, roughly, about three weeks from the start. By then his temperature ought to be down to normal."

Lady Clifford pondered this, her hand still on Esther's arm, the fingers drumming jerkily. Then she said suddenly:

"You will think me stupid to be so emotional. The doctor does; he has no sympathy with nerves! I know many wives would take all this quite calmly, but unfortunately for me, I am too sensitive, I feel things so terribly! I keep thinking, if anything should happen to my husband…"

"But I don't see why anything should happen, he's really getting on very nicely," returned Esther, more and more perplexed.

She was unprepared for the almost fierce way in which the other turned upon her, saying:

"You think that too, do you? He is, as you say, getting on nicely, quite safely?"

It was almost accusing.

"Why, yes. I'm sure there's no immediate cause for alarm."

The delicate brows knit into a frown, the hand on Esther's arm tightened its grip.

"Then you don't think that for a man of his age and in his state of health typhoid is—is a thing to—to be frightened about? You would not be frightened for him?"

Esther glanced apprehensively at the bed.

"If you don't mind, Lady Clifford, I think we'd better not talk in here. One can't always be certain if he's asleep."

As tactfully as she could she manoeuvred her companion towards the door. Lady Clifford went willingly enough, but on the threshold she paused and said, more distinctly than was necessary, it seemed:

"Yes, yes, you are quite right. But you see I have been afraid he had not the strength to resist any serious disease. You do understand my being so nervous, don't you?"

Esther closed the door with a feeling of annoyance. How silly of Lady Clifford, at the very moment when she had been cautioned! Had the old man heard? It was often difficult to tell about him, when he lay so quiet. She did not want him to be upset by thinking the family were apprehensive about him.

She went to the window and looked out. Her hand still smelled of Lady Clifford's distinctive perfume; she sniffed at it, trying to decide if she liked it or not. It was delicious, but heavy, clinging. What was it the night-nurse had said to her the evening before?

"Isn't Lady Clifford a dream?" the woman had confided gushingly. "Did you ever see anything so lovely? I do so adore her scent when she comes into the room. Yet for all she's such a picture, I never saw anything like her devotion to that old husband of hers—poor dear, she worries so she can't sleep—keeps coming in during the night in her lovely dressing-gown to ask me how he's going on, and if there's any change. He's a lucky old thing, if you want my opinion."

Yes, there was no doubt whatever, Lady Clifford's anxiety for her husband was genuine. She had worked herself into a state of tense nerves. Yet why? Was it possible she was as fond of the old man as the night-nurse believed? Esther could hardly credit that. To begin with there was that conversation at the tea-table, which made it impossible to think that the Frenchwoman loved her husband, at least enough to upset herself as she was doing now. What then could be the reason? Could it be—ah, now perhaps one was getting at it!—could it be that Sir Charles had made some will of which she did not approve? She might easily be anxious for him to recover, so that he might have a chance of altering it. Yes, that was distinctly possible.

And yet, after all, it did not quite fit in with all that her memory held in connection with that little scene at the Restaurant des Ambassadeurs. She made an effort to recall it in detail. Had not Lady Clifford said something about a visit to a fortune-teller of some sort? What was it? Of course! She said the woman went into a trance and described "Charles" lying ill in bed, with a doctor beside him and a nurse.

"Good gracious, it has come true! And I am the nurse!"

She almost exclaimed it out aloud, so great was her astonishment. The next moment she wondered how on earth she had failed to recall this astounding coincidence before. Most likely it was due to the fact that her first impression of Lady Clifford had been overlaid by subsequent ones. What was it she had thought as she listened to the subdued, eager voice? There was no question about it—she had been convinced at the time that the exquisite creature was passionately hoping for illness to come to her rescue and rid her of a tedious old husband.

Instantly the scales fell from Esther's eyes. Why of course! The woman was not anxious for fear Sir Charles might die, she was in a fever of dread lest he should recover! What a horrible thought! Could it really be true? The habit of believing in people made her long to reject the explanation, yet she knew she could not. It accounted for everything, even the expression on the French woman's face a moment ago.

Guiltily Esther glanced at the motionless invalid. There he lay, with quiet breathing, ignorant of the fact that his own wife was wishing him out of the way, praying for death to claim him. Praying? What if the prayers of the wife had in some way wished an illness upon the unsuspecting old man? Of course that was purely grotesque, yet as the ghastly notion occurred to her, Esther felt a sudden longing to confide in someone—Miss Clifford, the son, even the doctor….

Good heavens, what an idea! The mere thought of mentioning this sort of thing to Dr. Sartorius threw a dash of cold water over her heated fancy. She could picture the scornful indifference with which he would receive her communication, she could almost hear him say, "Well, what of it? How many wives do you suppose are daily wishing their husbands would die? Does it shorten anyone's life? We don't live in the Middle Ages!"

At thought of the man of science, rational and cynical, she felt her balance restored. She was even able to laugh at herself for getting so worked up. Granting her suspicion was true, Lady Clifford could not harm the old man by thinking, not even if she cherished an effigy stuck full of pins. Such things did not happen….

"Nurse!"

She started violently. Without the least warning movement the ill man had roused to consciousness and was calling her feebly.

"Are you there, nurse?"

She went quickly to his side.

"Yes, certainly, Sir Charles. Did you want anything?"

"I suppose it must be nearly lunch-time?"

"In half an hour. Are you hungry?"

"Oh, I don't know. It depends. If I'm only to have that disgusting milk again, I don't mind waiting."

She smiled at his petulance.

"You mustn't have any solid food, you know," she told him gently.
"You'll have to be on a liquid diet for some time."

"I know all about that," he replied with a fretful movement of the head. "It's the milk I detest. I was sick of it before ever I was taken ill. I've had so much of the damned stuff."

"Have you?"

"Oh, yes, gallons. The doctor prescribed it for me several months ago, to try to put some flesh on me."

"And did it do you good?"

"I gained a few pounds, certainly, but I got to hate the very sight of it."

He turned restlessly, seeking a more comfortable position, and a grim smile flickered over his sallow face.

"I did my utmost to dodge it, but it was no good. First it was my sister who kept forcing the stuff on me, then my wife took a hand. Between the two of them I hadn't a chance. Now, to cap the climax, I have nothing but milk. I don't know why I should be so punished."

She laughed gaily and with a deft hand put the covers right for him.

"Never mind, I'll fix it for you so you'll find it quite different.
You'll see, it won't be bad."

Her words and the laugh were alike purely mechanical. Inside her brain she was listening to other words in the doctor's hall, ten days ago: "I suppose he's had his milk regularly, a pint and a half a day?…"

She had assumed that Sartorius had meant that the old man was fortified by the extra nourishment, but the conclusion she had come to in regard to Lady Clifford upset her former ideas. She heartily wished she had not thought of it, that she had never overheard the conversation between Lady Clifford and Holliday….

"I'd far better attend to my own affairs," she told herself decidedly. "If I don't, I shall be in imminent danger of becoming known as Esther the Eavesdropper."

At this thought she laughed again, spontaneously, then was disconcerted to find a pair of sunken old eyes regarding her keenly.

"What's amusing you?" demanded her patient.

"This time I'm afraid I can't tell you," she confessed in confusion, annoyed to feel a tide of red sweep over her face.

"Well, you might think of it again when you want a little extra colour," commented the old man dryly, but with an approving glance.

As her eyes met his shyly, noting how the quizzical smile softened his rather grim features, she realised his resemblance to his son. Simultaneously Sir Charles became for her a human being. Up till now he had been merely a "case." Something about him roused her sympathy, a wave of pity swept over her, she felt that she would put her whole heart into the task of taking care of him and making him well. Odd! Was this the result of flattered vanity? Or was it because the old man happened to resemble a certain young one? There was no denying that the pleasant glow had persisted ever since that trivial conversation in the hall.

She was late for dÉjeuner, and on entering the dining-room found Lady Clifford just leaving, and Miss Clifford and her nephew lingering over their coffee.

"You've had a lot to do, haven't you, Miss Rowe?" Miss Clifford greeted her kindly. "It doesn't matter, everything has been kept hot."

As Esther sat down the old lady continued what she was saying to the young man:

"Yes, it is very nice of ThÉrÈse," she remarked, "really most thoughtful."

"What is?" inquired Roger absently, his eyes on Esther.

"Why, to give the doctor a lift back to his house. It is quite out of her way, but she knows that he hates driving his own car."

"Oh!" he exclaimed briefly, as though the matter did not interest him.
"I wonder if there's a car I can have this afternoon?"

"Certainly, the little CitroËn; it's in good order."

"Good, I'll tell Thompson to get it out. I've got a few things to attend to. As a matter of fact I want to call in at the cable office and inquire about that message that never reached me."

"Do you think it is any use?"

"I don't know. I'm going to see what happened, anyhow. You're quite sure it was sent?"

"Of course! ThÉrÈse saw to it herself. I recall it perfectly."

Roger dropped his cigarette end into his coffee cup and rose with a stretch of his long arms; then, with a smile that included Esther, he left the room.

On her way upstairs Esther met the doctor, hat in hand. He stopped her, laying a heavy finger on her arm, and spoke in a low voice.

"As far as possible," he said slowly, keeping his little lightish eyes upon her, "try to keep Lady Clifford out of the room. Make excuses. She is a highly emotional uncontrolled type, and she is likely to have a bad effect on the patient. Excitement," he added with careful emphasis, "is the thing we must do everything to guard against. To a man in his condition it might have disastrous results. You must see that he is not agitated in any way whatsoever."

"I understand," she replied quickly. "I'll do my very best. Perhaps it would be as well if you spoke to Lady Clifford yourself."

"I have done so, but I cannot promise that it will be sufficient," he answered. "She is a difficult woman to manage."

Looking after the ponderous figure as it creaked down the stairs, Esther wondered if by chance the doctor shared her suspicion as to Lady Clifford's secret feelings. Did he fear that in some way her adverse desires might communicate themselves to the invalid with unfortunate effects? She half thought this was the case. In his cold-blooded way the doctor was conscientious. He was being highly paid to save the old man's life, and save him he meant to do, no matter whose wishes stood in the way.

* * * * *

Late that afternoon, while Miss Clifford was changing her dress for dinner, there was a knock at her door, and her nephew entered. With a look of moody thought on his face, he stood for some moments beside the dressing-table drumming with his fingers on the edge of the mirror in a way that betokened indecision.

"Is anything the matter?" his aunt asked when she had glanced at him the second time and still he had not spoken.

"Just this," he replied, frowning slightly. "Would you believe me if I told you that that cable you spoke of was never sent?"