ELLINGHAM. Indeed!

KERCHIVAL. About half-past nine this evening, while the ladies were
dressing for the ball, I was going up-stairs; I heard a quick, sharp
cry, sprang forward, found myself at an open door. Mrs. Haverill lay
on the floor inside, as if she had just reached the door to cry for
help, when she fell. After doing all the unnecessary and useless
things I could think of, I rushed out of the room to tell your sister,
Gertrude, and my own sister, Madeline, to go and take care of the
lady. Within less than twenty minutes afterwards, I saw Mrs. Haverill
sail into the drawing-room, a thing of beauty, and with the glow of
perfect health on her cheek. It was an immense relief to me when I saw
her. Up to that time I had a vague idea that I had committed a murder.

ELLINGHAM. Murder!

KERCHIVAL. M--m. A guilty conscience. Every man, of course, does
exactly the wrong thing when a woman faints. When I rushed out of Mrs.
Haverill's room, I left my handkerchief soaked with water upon her
face. I must ask her for it; it's a silk one. Luckily, the girls
got there in time to take it off; she wouldn't have come to if they
hadn't. It never occurred to me that she'd need to breathe in my
absence. That's all I know about the matter. What troubles you? I
suppose every woman has a right to faint whenever she chooses. The
scream that I heard was so sharp, quick and intense that--

ELLINGHAM. That the cause must have been a serious one.

KERCHIVAL. Yes! So I thought. It must have been a mouse.