It was a perfect day for the wedding. Autumn at her brightest and gayest before her new bright robes began to brown. Soft air, mellow sun, cool-lipped breeze, horizon veiled in tinted mist—a gem of a day, the jewel of a season.

"Them as has, gets," murmured Mrs. Sykes, gloomily, as she tied on her Sunday bonnet. She rather resented the kindness of nature upon this present occasion. A nice rain would have suited her mood better.

Nevertheless, much as her mind misgave her in regard to the wedding, she was early on her way to the Elms to see if she could help.

"They're sure to be flustrated," she told herself. "Aunt Amy's just as likely as not to lose what little bit of head she has and hired help are broken reeds. Esther will have the brunt of it. She'll be glad enough to see me, I'll be bound."

Do not imagine that Mrs. Sykes was curious. Curiosity was a failing which she systematically repudiated. But she was a very helpful person and it was wonderful how many opportunities of helpfulness she found upon solemn or joyous occasions. If, while helping, her ears were open, and her eyes shrewd, can she be blamed for that? There may be people with ears who hear not but they do not live in Coombe. The only difficulty is to manage to be, like Mr. Micawber, on the spot.

Mrs. Sykes was early, but not too early. When she slipped in at the side door there was already a stir of unusual movement in the house but the final flutter was still measurably distant. Jane dashed past with crimped hair and white ribbons flying. Miss Philps, very stately in a new gown, was arranging flowers in geometrical patterns. Dr. Callandar, self-possessed as ever, talked upon the veranda with Professor Willits who had arrived the night before. Aunt Amy was busy in the kitchen. Esther, flushed and excited, with eyes that flashed blue fire, seemed everywhere at once.

"Oh, Mrs. Sykes," she exclaimed, "how nice of you to come! Won't you please get Jane and tie her up—her ribbons, I mean? It is almost time to dress."

"Would you like me to assist?" asked Miss Philps, looking up from a geometrical pattern.

"Oh, thanks, Miss Philps. There are some hooks I cannot manage. But mother will probably need a lot of help. I thought you were with her now."

"No. She has not yet sent for me." Miss Philps drew out her watch and consulted it. "Dear me!" with slight surprise, "it is much later than I thought. Perhaps I had better go up."

Esther looked worried. "I believe you had—if she hurries at the last she will be terribly excited. Aunt Amy told me she wished particularly not to be disturbed this morning, but surely she has forgotten how late it is getting."

"I'll go up," said Miss Philps. "It's time for her tonic anyway, and we must persuade her to eat something. When you are ready for me to hook your dress, call. I can easily manage you both."

This is all that Mrs. Sykes heard, for just then Jane flew by again like a returning comet and had to be captured and properly tied up. Mrs. Sykes, as she admitted herself, was no hand at fancy fixings but she was painstaking and conscientious and the bow-tying absorbed all her energies. She was getting on very well and had almost succeeded in adjusting the last bow when a cry from the room above startled her into the tying of a double knot.

"What was that?"

It was not a loud cry—but there was something in it which brought Mrs. Sykes' heart leaping into her throat, which sent Esther reeling against the stair baluster, which brought the doctor, white-faced from the veranda—it was the kind of cry which carries in its note the psychic essence of terror and disaster.

Mrs. Sykes for all her iron nerve felt suddenly faint. Jane began to cry. The doctor and Esther had raced up the stairs. But there was no repetition of the cry. Instead there was silence. Then a murmur of voices and sounds of ordered activity overhead.

Clearly something had happened. But what? Mrs. Sykes wanted very much to go and see. But the glimpse she had caught of Callandar's eyes as he sprang to the stair, the look of white horror in Esther's face as she followed him, and above all, that strange terrifying Something in the cry she had heard seemed to discourage enquiry. The good lady turned her attention to the comforting of Jane. After all, if she waited long enough she could hardly help hearing all about it. At first hand, too.

It seemed a long time that she waited. Miss Philps came up and down the stairs several times but she did not appear to see Mrs. Sykes. Jane stopped crying and wandered out into the garden. Still Mrs. Sykes waited and presently Aunt Amy came in, looking quite excited and asked eagerly what time it was. Mrs. Sykes told her, adding with asperity that these were fine goings-on, and that they'd all be late for the wedding if they didn't hurry up.

"Yes, I think they will. I'm almost sure they will," said Aunt Amy, and she laughed as a child laughs when it is greatly pleased.

"Dear me, she is much madder than I thought," murmured Mrs. Sykes. "Whatever is the matter? What are they doing?" she asked in a louder tone.

Aunt Amy raised a finger, "Hush! she's asleep. Let us tidy up the room. I don't think she is going to wake up for a long time yet. And then she'll have to wait till the world goes round again."

"Well of all the—" began Mrs. Sykes, but she was interrupted by the entrance of Professor Willits. With the virtuous air of one who strictly minds her own business she began to tie her bonnet strings.

"Don't go, Mrs. Sykes," said the professor gravely. "I think—I'm afraid you may be needed."

"I hope nothing serious has happened?" faltered Mrs. Sykes, now thoroughly disturbed, but he did not seem to hear her. He was listening intently to the sounds overhead. They were very slight sounds now and presently they ceased altogether. Willits looked more anxious. Then, in the midst of a new, heavier silence, Dr. Callandar himself came down the stairs.

At first sight he appeared almost as usual. He did not notice Mrs. Sykes but went straight across the room to Willits.

"Nothing—any use—" he began haltingly. Then suddenly the words ceased to come. His lips moved but there was no sound. With an expression of intense surprise he lifted his hand to his head, and swayed awkwardly into the nearest chair.

"Land sakes, look out! he's going to fall," cried Mrs. Sykes in terror.

"Breakdown," said the professor briefly. "I expected something of the kind. Help me to get him to the car."

"Oh, Land, Land," moaned; Mrs. Sykes, "whatever"—but realising that the time for questioning was not yet, she did what she was told without more words.

"Better send for Dr. Parker," said Willits crisply to Miss Philps who had come in quietly. "Better tell the minister, too. Keep the little girl down stairs. I'll be back as soon as I can. Mrs. Sykes, I shall want you to come with me."

"Oh, Land—" but she got no further, the car was off like the wind.

Later when the doctor had been put to bed like a child and telegrams dispatched which would bring a specialist and a nurse on the afternoon train, the good lady drew a long breath and decided that she couldn't "last out" a moment longer.

Drawing Willits from the room her questions burst forth in their unstemmed torrent.

The tall man listened at first in bewilderment. Then, as the true inwardness of the case dawned on him, a look which was almost admiration came over his angular countenance.

"Why, Mrs. Sykes," he said, "is it possible that you do not know? I would have told you before but I took your knowledge for granted. The poor lady whom my friend was to marry was found dead in her bed. She died during the night. An overdose of sleeping powder."