window leading to the garden was wide open. Henson was watching for
something. In his feline nature he had the full gift of feline patience.
To serve his own ends he would have sat there watching all night if
necessary. He heard an occasional whimper, a howl from one of the dogs;
he heard Enid's voice singing in the drawing-room. The rest of the house
was quite funereal enough for him.

In the midst of the drawing-room Margaret Henson sat still as a statue.
The distant, weary expression never left her eyes for a moment. As the
stable clock, the only one going on the premises, struck ten, Enid
crossed over from the piano to her aunt's side. There was an eager look
on her face, her eyes were gleaming like frosty stars.

"Aunt," she whispered; "dear, I have had a message!"

"Message of woe and desolation," Margaret Henson cried. "Tribulation and
sorrow on this wretched house. For seven long years the hand of the Lord
has lain heavily upon us."

She spoke like one who was far away from her surroundings. And yet no
one could look in her eyes and say that she was mad. It was a proud,
passionate spirit, crushed down by some bitter humiliation. Enid's
eyes flashed.

"That scoundrel has been robbing you again," she said.

"Two thousand pounds," came the mechanical reply, "to endow a bed in some
hospital. And there is no escape, no hope unless we drag the shameful
secret from him. Bit by bit and drop by drop, and then I shall die and
you and Christiana will be penniless."