It certainly was a bleak wind yesterday—and a
cemetery, my dear sir! It was indiscreet—yes, very.’ He held out his
hand. ‘You must not be alarmed,’ he said, very distinctly with the
merest trace of an accent; ‘air, sunshine, quiet, nourishment;
sleep—that is all. The little window might be a few inches open,
and—and any light reading.’

He opened the door and joined Mrs Lawford on the staircase. He talked
to her quietly over his shoulder all the way downstairs. ‘It was, it
was sporting with Providence—a wind, believe me, nearly due east, in
spite of the warm sunshine.’

‘But the change—the change!’ Mrs Lawford managed to murmur tragically,
as he strode to the door. Dr Simon smiled, and gracefully tapped his
forehead with a red-gloved forefinger. ‘Humour him, humour him,’ he repeated indulgently. ‘Rest and quiet will
soon put that little trouble out of his head. Oh yes, I did notice
it—the set drawn look, and the droop: quite so. Good morning.’

Mrs Lawford gently closed the door after him. A glimpse of Ada,
crossing from room to room, suggested a precaution. She called out in
her clearest notes. ‘If Dr Ferguson should call while I am out, Ada,
will you please tell him that Dr Simon regretted that he was unable to
wait? Thank you.’ She paused with hand on the balusters, then slowly
ascended the stairs. Her husband’s face was turned to the ceiling, his
hands clasped above his head. She took up her stand by the fireplace,
resting one silk-slippered foot on the fender. ‘Dr Simon is
reassuring,’ she said, ‘but I do hope, Arthur, you will follow his
advice. He looks a fairly clever man.... But with a big practice.... Do
you think, dear, he quite realised the extent of the—the change?’

‘I told him what happened,’ said her husband’s voice out of the
bed-clothes. ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Sheila soothingly; ‘but we must remember he is
comparatively a stranger. He would not detect—’

‘What did he tell you?’ asked the voice. Mrs Lawford deliberately considered. If only he would always thus keep
his face concealed, how much easier it would be to discuss matters
rationally. ‘You see, dear,’ she said softly, ‘I know, of course,
nothing about the nerves; but personally, I think his suggestion
absurd. No mere fancy, surely, can make a lasting alteration in one’s
face. And your hair—I don’t want to say anything that may seem
unkind—but isn’t it really quite a distinct shade darker, Arthur?’

‘Any great strain will change the colour of a man’s hair,’ said Lawford
stolidly; ‘at any rate, to white. Why, I read once of a fellow in
India, a Hindoo, or something, who—’

‘But have you _had_ any intense strain, or anxiety?’ broke in Sheila. ‘You might, at least, have confided in me; that is, unless—But there,
don’t you think really, Arthur, it would be much more satisfactory in
every way if we had further advice at once? Alice will be home next
week. To-morrow is the Harvest Festival, and next week, of course, the
Dedication; and, in any case, the Bazaar is out of the question. They
will have to find another stall-holder. We must do our utmost to avoid
comment or scandal. Every minute must help to—to fix a thing like that. I own even now I cannot realise what this awful calamity means. It’s
useless to brood on it. We must, as the poor dear old vicar said only
last night, keep our heads clear. But I am sure Dr Simon was under a
misapprehension. If, now, it was explained to him, a little more fully,
Arthur—a photograph. Oh, anything on earth but this dreadful wearing
uncertainty and suspense! Besides ...is Simon quite an English name?’

Lawford drew further into his pillow. ‘Do as you think best, Sheila,’
he said. ‘For my own part, I believe it may be as he suggests—partly an
illusion, a touch of nervous breakdown. It simply can’t be as bad as I
think it is. If it were, you would not be here talking like this; and
Bethany wouldn’t have believed a word I said. Whatever it is, it’s no
good crying it on the housetops. Give me time, just time. Besides, how
do we know what he really thought? Doctors don’t tell their patients
everything. Give the poor chap a chance, and more so if he is a
foreigner. He’s’—his voice sank almost to a whisper—‘he’s no darker
than this. And do, please, Sheila, take this infernal stuff away, and
let me have something solid. I’m not ill—in that way. All I want is
peace and quiet, time to think. Let me fight it out alone. It’s been
sprung on me. The worst’s not over. But I’ll win through; wait! And if
not—well, you shall not suffer, Sheila. Don’t be afraid. There are
other ways out.’

Sheila broke down. ‘Any one would think to hear you talk, that I was
perfectly heartless. I told Ada to be most careful about the cornflour. And as for other ways out, it’s a positively wicked thing to say to me
when I’m nearly distracted with trouble and anxiety. What motive could
you have had for loitering in an old cemetery? And in an east wind! It’s useless for me to remain here, Arthur, to be accused of every
horrible thing that comes into a morbid imagination. I will leave you,
as you suggest, in peace.’

‘One moment, Sheila,’ answered the muffled voice. ‘I have accused you
of nothing. If you knew all; if you could read my thoughts, you would
be surprised, perhaps, at my—But never mind that. On the other hand, I
really do think it would be better for the present to discuss the thing
no more. To-day is Friday. Give this miserable face a week. Talk it
over with Bethany if you like. But I forbid’—he struggled up in bed,
sallow and sinister—‘I flatly forbid, please understand, any other
interference till then. Afterwards you must do exactly as you please. Send round the Town Crier! But till then, silence!’

Sheila with raised head confronted him. ‘This, then, is your gratitude. So be it. Silence, no doubt! Until it’s too late to take action. Until
you have wormed your way in, and think you are safe. To have believed! Where is my husband? that is what I am asking you now. When and how you
have learned his secrets God only knows, and your conscience! But he
always was a simpleton at heart. I warn you, then. Until next Thursday
I consent to say nothing provided you remain quiet; make no
disturbance, no scandal here. The servants and all who inquire shall
simply be told that my husband is confined to his room with—with a
nervous breakdown, as you have yourself so glibly suggested. I am at
your mercy, I own it. The vicar believes your preposterous story—with
his spectacles off. You would convince anybody with the wicked cunning
with which you have cajoled and wheedled him, with which you have
deceived and fooled a foreign doctor. But you will not convince me. You
will not convince Alice. I have friends in the world, though you may
not be aware of it, who will not be quite so apt to believe any
cock-and-bull story you may see fit to invent. That is all I have to
say. To-night I tell the vicar all that I have just told you. And from
this moment, please, we are strangers.