The heat of a sulphurous afternoon--a curious parallel in its presage of coming storm to the fast-approaching crisis in Dominey's own affairs--had driven Dominey from his study on to the terrace.

In a chair by his side lounged Eddy Pelham, immaculate in a suit of white flannels.
It was the fifth day since the mystery of the Black Wood had been solved.
"Ripping, old chap, of you to have me down here," the young man remarked amiably, his hand stretching out to a tumbler which stood by his side.
"The country, when you can get ice, is a paradise in this weather, especially when London's so full of ghastly rumours and all that sort of thing.

What's the latest news of her ladyship ?" "Still unconscious," Dominey replied.

"The doctors, however, seem perfectly satisfied.

Everything depends on her waking moments." The young man abandoned the subject with a murmur of hopeful sympathy.
His eyes were fixed upon a little cloud of dust in the distance.
"Expecting visitors to-day ?" he asked.
"Should not be surprised," was the somewhat laconic answer.
The young man stood up, yawned and stretched himself.
"I'll make myself scarce," he said.