The day had advanced to evening. Lord Montbarry and the bridalparty had gone to the Opera. Agnes alone, pleading the excuseof fatigue, remained at the hotel. Having kept up appearancesby accompanying his friends to the theatre, Henry Westwick slippedaway after the first act, and joined Agnes in the drawing-room.

'Have you thought of what I said to you earlier in the day?'he asked, taking a chair at her side. 'Do you agree with methat the one dreadful doubt which oppressed us both is at least setat rest?'

Agnes shook her head sadly. 'I wish I could agree with you, Henry--I wish I could honestly say that my mind is at ease.'

The answer would have discouraged most men. Henry's patience(where Agnes was concerned) was equal to any demands on it.

'If you will only look back at the events of the day,' he said,'you must surely admit that we have not been completely baffled.Remember how Dr. Bruno disposed of our doubts:--"After thirty yearsof medical practice, do you think I am likely to mistake the symptomsof death by bronchitis?" If ever there was an unanswerable question,there it is! Was the consul's testimony doubtful in any part of it?He called at the palace to offer his services, after hearing of LordMontbarry's death; he arrived at the time when the coffin was in the house;he himself saw the corpse placed in it, and the lid screwed down.The evidence of the priest is equally beyond dispute. He remainedin the room with the coffin, reciting the prayers for the dead,until the funeral left the palace. Bear all these statementsin mind, Agnes; and how can you deny that the question of Montbarry'sdeath and burial is a question set at rest? We have reallybut one doubt left: we have still to ask ourselves whetherthe remains which I discovered are the remains of the lost courier,or not. There is the case, as I understand it. Have I statedit fairly?'

Agnes could not deny that he had stated it fairly.

"Then what prevents you from experiencing the same sense of reliefthat I feel?' Henry asked.

'What I saw last night prevents me,' Agnes answered. 'When we spokeof this subject, after our inquiries were over, you reproached mewith taking what you called the superstitious view. I don't quiteadmit that--but I do acknowledge that I should find the superstitiousview intelligible if I heard it expressed by some other person.Remembering what your brother and I once were to each other in thebygone time, I can understand the apparition making itself visibleto me, to claim the mercy of Christian burial, and the vengeance dueto a crime. I can even perceive some faint possibility of truthin the explanation which you described as the mesmeric theory--that what I saw might be the result of magnetic influence communicatedto me, as I lay between the remains of the murdered husband above meand the guilty wife suffering the tortures of remorse at my bedside.But what I do not understand is, that I should have passed throughthat dreadful ordeal; having no previous knowledge of the murderedman in his lifetime, or only knowing him (if you suppose that I sawthe apparition of Ferrari) through the interest which I took in his wife.I can't dispute your reasoning, Henry. But I feel in my heartof hearts that you are deceived. Nothing will shake my beliefthat we are still as far from having discovered the dreadful truthas ever.'

Henry made no further attempt to dispute with her. She hadimpressed him with a certain reluctant respect for her own opinion,in spite of himself.

'Have you thought of any better way of arriving at the truth?'he asked. 'Who is to help us? No doubt there is the Countess,who has the clue to the mystery in her own hands. But, in the presentstate of her mind, is her testimony to be trusted--even if shewere willing to speak? Judging by my own experience, I should saydecidedly not.'

'You don't mean that you have seen her again?' Agnes eagerly interposed.

'Yes. I disturbed her once more over her endless writing;and I insisted on her speaking out plainly.'

'Then you told her what you found when you opened the hiding-place?'

'Of course I did!' Henry replied. 'I said that I held her responsiblefor the discovery, though I had not mentioned her connection with itto the authorities as yet. She went on with her writing as if I hadspoken in an unknown tongue! I was equally obstinate, on my side.I told her plainly that the head had been placed under the careof the police, and that the manager and I had signed our declarationsand given our evidence. She paid not the slightest heed to me.By way of tempting her to speak, I added that the whole investigationwas to be kept a secret, and that she might depend on my discretion.For the moment I thought I had succeeded. She looked upfrom her writing with a passing flash of curiosity, and said,"What are they going to do with it?"--meaning, I suppose, the head.I answered that it was to be privately buried, after photographsof it had first been taken. I even went the length of communicatingthe opinion of the surgeon consulted, that some chemical means ofarresting decomposition had been used and had only partially succeeded--and I asked her point-blank if the surgeon was right? The trap was nota bad one--but it completely failed. She said in the coolest manner,"Now you are here, I should like to consult you about my play;I am at a loss for some new incidents." Mind! there was nothingsatirical in this. She was really eager to read her wonderfulwork to me--evidently supposing that I took a special interestin such things, because my brother is the manager of a theatre!I left her, making the first excuse that occurred to me.So far as I am concerned, I can do nothing with her.But it is possible that your influence may succeed with her again,as it has succeeded already. Will you make the attempt, to satisfyyour own mind? She is still upstairs; and I am quite ready toaccompany you.'

Agnes shuddered at the bare suggestion of another interviewwith the Countess.

'I can't! I daren't!' she exclaimed. 'After what has happenedin that horrible room, she is more repellent to me than ever.Don't ask me to do it, Henry! Feel my hand--you have turned me as coldas death only with talking of it!'

She was not exaggerating the terror that possessed her.Henry hastened to change the subject.

'Let us talk of something more interesting,' he said. 'I havea question to ask you about yourself. Am I right in believingthat the sooner you get away from Venice the happier you will be?'

'Right?' she repeated excitedly. 'You are more than right!No words can say how I long to be away from this horrible place.But you know how I am situated--you heard what Lord Montbarry saidat dinner-time?'

'Suppose he has altered his plans, since dinner-time?' Henry suggested.

Agnes looked surprised. 'I thought he had received letters fromEngland which obliged him to leave Venice to-morrow,' she said.

'Quite true,' Henry admitted. 'He had arranged to startfor England to-morrow, and to leave you and Lady Montbarryand the children to enjoy your holiday in Venice, under my care.Circumstances have occurred, however, which have forced himto alter his plans. He must take you all back with him to-morrowbecause I am not able to assume the charge of you. I am obligedto give up my holiday in Italy, and return to England too.'

Agnes looked at him in some little perplexity: she was not quitesure whether she understood him or not.

'Are you really obliged to go back?' she asked.

Henry smiled as he answered her. 'Keep the secret,' he said,'or Montbarry will never forgive me!'

She read the rest in his face. 'Oh!' she exclaimed, blushing brightly,'you have not given up your pleasant holiday in Italy on my account?'

'I shall go back with you to England, Agnes. That will be holidayenough for me.'

She took his hand in an irrepressible outburst of gratitude.'How good you are to me!' she murmured tenderly. 'What should I havedone in the troubles that have come to me, without your sympathy?I can't tell you, Henry, how I feel your kindness.'

She tried impulsively to lift his hand to her lips. He gentlystopped her. 'Agnes,' he said, 'are you beginning to understandhow truly I love you?'

That simple question found its own way to her heart. She ownedthe whole truth, without saying a word. She looked at him--and then looked away again.

He drew her nearer to him. 'My own darling!' he whispered--and kissed her. Softly and tremulously, the sweet lips lingered,and touched his lips in return. Then her head drooped.She put her arms round his neck, and hid her face on his bosom.They spoke no more.

The charmed silence had lasted but a little while, when it wasmercilessly broken by a knock at the door.

Agnes started to her feet. She placed herself at the piano;the instrument being opposite to the door, it was impossible,when she seated herself on the music-stool, for any personentering the room to see her face. Henry called out irritably,'Come in.'

The door was not opened. The person on the other side of it askeda strange question.

'Is Mr. Henry Westwick alone?'

Agnes instantly recognised the voice of the Countess. She hurriedto a second door, which communicated with one of the bedrooms.'Don't let her come near me!' she whispered nervously. 'Good night,Henry! good night!'

If Henry could, by an effort of will, have transported the Countessto the uttermost ends of the earth, he would have made the effortwithout remorse. As it was, he only repeated, more irritably than ever,'Come in!'

She entered the room slowly with her everlasting manuscript in her hand.Her step was unsteady; a dark flush appeared on her face, in placeof its customary pallor; her eyes were bloodshot and widely dilated.In approaching Henry, she showed a strange incapability of calculatingher distances--she struck against the table near which he happenedto be sitting. When she spoke, her articulation was confused, and herpronunciation of some of the longer words was hardly intelligible.Most men would have suspected her of being under the influence of someintoxicating liquor. Henry took a truer view--he said, as he placeda chair for her, 'Countess, I am afraid you have been working too hard:you look as if you wanted rest.'

She put her hand to her head. 'My invention has gone,' she said.'I can't write my fourth act. It's all a blank--all a blank!'

Henry advised her to wait till the next day. 'Go to bed,' he suggested;and try to sleep.'

She waved her hand impatiently. 'I must finish the play,'she answered. 'I only want a hint from you. You must knowsomething about plays. Your brother has got a theatre.You must often have heard him talk about fourth and fifth acts--you must have seen rehearsals, and all the rest of it.'She abruptly thrust the manuscript into Henry's hand. 'I can't readit to you,' she said; 'I feel giddy when I look at my own writing.Just run your eye over it, there's a good fellow--and give mea hint.'

Henry glanced at the manuscript. He happened to look at the listof the persons of the drama. As he read the list he started and turnedabruptly to the Countess, intending to ask her for some explanation.The words were suspended on his lips. It was but too plainly uselessto speak to her. Her head lay back on the rail of the chair.She seemed to be half asleep already. The flush on her facehad deepened: she looked like a woman who was in danger of havinga fit.

He rang the bell, and directed the man who answered it to sendone of the chambermaids upstairs. His voice seemed to partiallyrouse the Countess; she opened her eyes in a slow drowsy way.'Have you read it?' she asked.

It was necessary as a mere act of humanity to humour her.'I will read it willingly,' said Henry, 'if you will go upstairsto bed. You shall hear what I think of it to-morrow morning.Our heads will be clearer, we shall be better able to make the fourthact in the morning.'

The chambermaid came in while he was speaking. 'I am afraidthe lady is ill,' Henry whispered. 'Take her up to her room.'The woman looked at the Countess and whispered back, 'Shall we sendfor a doctor, sir?'

Henry advised taking her upstairs first, and then askingthe manager's opinion. There was great difficulty in persuadingher to rise, and accept the support of the chambermaid's arm.It was only by reiterated promises to read the play that night,and to make the fourth act in the morning, that Henry prevailed onthe Countess to return to her room.

Left to himself, he began to feel a certain languid curiosityin relation to the manuscript. He looked over the pages, reading aline here and a line there. Suddenly he changed colour as he read--and looked up from the manuscript like a man bewildered.'Good God! what does this mean?' he said to himself.

His eyes turned nervously to the door by which Agnes had left him.She might return to the drawing-room, she might want to see whatthe Countess had written. He looked back again at the passagewhich had startled him--considered with himself for a moment--and, snatching up the unfinished play, suddenly and softly leftthe room.