has never been willing to accept any other,” the woman replied.
“Are you very devoted to my wife?” he enquired.
Mrs. Unthank, grim and fierce though she was and appeared to be, was obviously disconcerted by Dominey’s line of questions.
“If I weren’t,” she demanded, “should I have been here all these years?”
“I scarcely see,” he continued, “what particular claim my wife has had upon you. I understand, moreover, that you are one of those who firmly believe that I killed your son. Is this attendance upon my wife a Christian act, then—the returning of good for evil?”
“Exactly what do you want to say to me, Sir Everard?” she asked harshly.
“I wish to say this,” Dominey replied, “that I am determined to bring about my wife’s restoration to health. For that reason I am going to have specialists down here, and above all things to change for a time her place of residence. My own feeling is that she will stand a much better chance of recovery without your attendance.”
“You would dare to send me away?” the woman demanded.
“That is my intention,” Dominey confessed. “I have not spoken to Lady Dominey yet, but I hope that very soon my influence over her will be such that she will be content to obey my wishes. I look upon your future from the financial point of view, as my care. I shall settle upon you the sum of three hundred pounds a year.”
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.”
“You are not fond of Mrs. Unthank?” he enquired anxiously.
“I don’t think so,” she answered, in a perplexed tone. “I think I am very much afraid of her. But it is no use, Everard! She would never go away.”
“When I return,” Dominey said, “we shall see.”
She took his arm and linked her hands through it.
“I am so sorry that you are going,” she murmured. “I hope you will soon come back. Will you come back—my husband?”
Dominey’s nails cut into the flesh of his clenched hands.
“I will come back within three days,” he promised.
“Do you know,” she went on confidentially, “something has come into my mind lately. I spoke about it yesterday, but I did not tell you what it was. You need never be afraid of me any more. I understand.”
“What do you understand?” he demanded huskily.
“The knowledge must have come to me,” she went on, dropping her voice a little and whispering almost in his ear, “at the very moment when my dagger rested upon your throat, when I suddenly felt the desire to kill die away. You are very like him sometimes, but you are not Everard. You are not my husband at all. You are another man.”
Dominey gave a little gasp. They both turned towards the door. Mrs. Unthank was standing there, her gaunt, hard face lit up with a gleam of something which was like triumph, her eyes glittering. Her lips, as though involuntarily, repeated her mistress’ last words.
“Another man!”
CHAPTER XIV
There were times during their rapid journey when Seaman, studying his companion, became thoughtful. Dominey seemed, indeed, to have passed beyond the boundaries of any ordinary reserve, to have become like a man immeshed in the toils of a past so absorbing that he moved as though in a dream, speaking only when necessary and comporting himself generally like one to whom all externals have lost significance. As they embarked upon the final stage of their travels, Seaman leaned forward in his seat in the sombrely upholstered, overheated compartment.
“Your home-coming seems to depress you, Von Ragastein,”
