"I'm afraid I have no time to tell you the story. Merat will be able to tell it to you better than I. I must get away by the next train.

There is no danger; she will recover."

"You say she will recover?" and Owen drew his hands across his eyes.

"I'm afraid I can hardly understand."

"But if you will just take a cab and go up to Ayrdale Mansions, you will find Merat, who will tell you everything."

"Yes, yes. You are sure she will recover?"

"Quite."

"But you--you are going away?"

"I have to, unless I give up my appointment. Of course, I should like to stay behind; but there is no danger, absolutely none, only an overdose of chloral."

"She suffered a great deal from sleeplessness. Perhaps it was an accident."

Ulick did not answer, and the elder man drove in one direction and the younger in another.

"Merat, this is terrible!"

"Won't you come into the drawing-room, Sir Owen?"

"She is in no danger?"

"No, Sir Owen."

"Can I see her?"

"Yes, of course, Sir Owen; but she is still asleep, and the doctor says she will not be able to understand or recognise anybody for some hours. You will see her if you call later."

"Yes, I'll call later; but first of all, tell me, Merat, when was the discovery made?"

"She left a letter for me to say she was not to be called, and knowing she had gone out for many hours, and finding her clothes and her boots wet through, I thought it better not to disturb her. Of course, I never suspected anything until Mr. Dean came."

"Yes, she was to meet him at the station." And as he said these words he remembered that Merat must know of Evelyn's intimacy with Ulick.

She must have been watching it for the last month, and no doubt already connected Evelyn's attempted suicide in some way with Mr.

Dean, but the fact that they had arranged to meet at the railway station did not point to a betrayal.

"There was no quarrel between them, then, Sir Owen?"

"None; oh, none, Merat."

"It is very strange."

"Yes, it is very strange, Merat; we might talk of it for hours without getting nearer to the truth. So Mr. Dean came here?"

"Yes. When I opened the door he said, 'Where is mademoiselle?' and I said, 'Asleep; she left a note that she was not to be called.'

'Then, Merat, something must have happened, for she was to meet me at the railway station. We must see to this at once.' Her door was locked, but Mr. Dean put his shoulder against it. In spite of the noise, she did not awake--a very few more grains would have killed her."

"Grains of what?"

"Chloral, Sir Owen. We thought she was dead. Mr. Dean went for the doctor. He looked very grave when he saw her; I could see he thought she was dead; but after examining her he said, 'She has a young heart, and will get over it.'"

"So that is your story, Merat?"

"Yes, Sir Owen, that is the story. There is no doubt about it she tried to kill herself, the doctor says."

"So, Merat, you think it was for Mr. Dean. Don't you know mademoiselle has taken a religious turn?"

"I know it, Sir Owen."

And he attributed the present misfortune to Monsignor, who had destroyed Evelyn's mind with ceremonies and sacraments.

"Good G.o.d! these people should be prosecuted." And he railed against the prelate and against religion, stopping only now and again when Merat went to her mistress's door, thinking she heard her call. "You say it was between eleven and twelve she came back?"

"It was after twelve, Sir Owen."

"Now where could she have been all that time, and in the rain, thinking how she might kill herself?"

"It couldn't have been anything else, Sir Owen. Her boots were soaked through as if she had been in the water, not caring where she went."

Owen wondered if it were possible she had ventured into the Serpentine.

"The park closes at nine, doesn't it, Sir Owen?" They talked of the possibility of hiding in the park and the keepers not discovering Evelyn in their rounds; it was quite possible for her to have escaped their notice if she hid in the bushes about the Long Water.

"You think, Sir Owen, that she intended to drown herself?"

"I don't know. You say her boots were wet through. Perhaps she went out to buy the chloral--perhaps she hadn't enough."

"Well, Sir Owen, she must have been doubtful if she had enough chloral to kill herself, for this is what I found." And the maid took out of her pocket several pairs of garters tied together.

"You think she tied these together so that she might hang herself?"

"There is no place she could hang herself except over the banisters.

I thought that perhaps she feared the garters were not strong enough and she might fall and break her legs."

"Poor woman! Poor woman!" So if the garters had proved stronger, she would have strangled there minute by minute. Nothing but religious mania--that is what drove her to it."

"I am inclined to think, Sir Owen, it must have been something of that kind, for of course there were no money difficulties."

"The agony of mind she must have suffered! The agony of the suicide!

And her agony, the worst of all, for she is a religious woman." Owen talked of how strange and mysterious are the motives which determine the lives of human beings. "You see, all her life was in disorder-- leaving the stage and giving me up. Merat, there is no use in disguising it from you. You know all about it. Do you remember when we met for the first time?"

"Yes, Sir Owen; indeed I do." And the two stood looking at each other, thinking of the changes that time had made in themselves. Sir Owen's figure was thinner, if anything, than before; his face seemed shrunken, but there were only a few grey hairs, and the maid thought him still a very distinguished-looking man--old, of course; but still, n.o.body would think of him as an old man. Merat's shoulders seemed to be higher than they were when he last saw her; she had developed a bust, and her black dress showed off her hips. Her hair seemed a little thinner, so she was still typically French; France looked out of her eyes. "Isn't it strange? The day we first met we little thought that we would come to know each other so well; and you have known her always, travelled all over Europe with her. How I have loved that woman, Merat! And here you are together, come from Park Lane to this poor little flat in Bayswater. It is wonderful, Merat, after all these years, to be sitting here, talking together about her whom we both love, you have been very good to her, and have looked after her well; I shall never forget it to you."

"I have done my best, Sir Owen; and you know mademoiselle is one of those whom one cannot help liking."