Her husband was dead--that was once more the paramount thought--and she
his widow had been acquitted on a charge of murdering him. But for the
moment she was thinking only of him, and her eyes hung over the spot
where she had seen him sitting dead--once without dreaming it--and soon
they filled. Perhaps she was remembering all that had been good in him,
perhaps all that had been evil in herself; her lips quivered, and her
eyes filled. But it was hard to pity one who was at rest, hard for her
with the world to face afresh that night, without a single friend. The
Carringtons? Well, she would see; and now she had a very definite point
upon which to consult Mr. Carrington. That helped her, and she went,
quietly and unseen as she had come.

There was still a light in the ground-floor windows of the Tite Street
house, strong lights and voices; it was the dining-room, for the
Minchins had dined there once; and the voices did not include a feminine
one that Rachel could perceive. If there were people dining with them,
the ladies must have gone upstairs, and Mrs. Carrington was the woman to
see Rachel for five minutes, and the one woman in England to whom she
could turn. It was an opportunity not to miss--she had not the courage
to let it pass--and yet it required almost as much to ring the bell. And
even as she rang--but not until that moment--did Rachel recognize and
admit to herself the motive which had brought her to that door. It was
not to obtain the advice of a clever man; it was the sympathy of another
woman that she needed that night more than anything else in all the
world.

She was shown at once into the study behind the dining-room, and
immediately the voices in the latter ceased. This was ominous; it was
for Mrs. Carrington that Rachel had asked; and the omen was instantly
fulfilled. It was Mr. Carrington who came into the room, dark, dapper,