"Like his father," the old lips said, and the old head shook ominously; "more's the pity—like his father."
Lady Helena took her nephew's arm and hurried him, under the dripping trees, up the avenue to the house. Five minutes brought them to it—a red brick villa, its shutters all closed. The house-door stood ajar; without ceremony her ladyship entered. As she did so, another, door suddenly opened, and Inez Catheron came out.
The fixedly pale face, could by no possibility grow paler—could by no possibility change its marble calm. But the deep, dusk eyes looked at the young man, it seemed to him, with an infinite compassion.
"We are in time?" his aunt spoke.
"You are in time. In one moment you will see him. There is not a second to lose, and he knows it. He has begged you to be brought to him the moment you arrive."
"He knows then. Oh, thank God! Reason has returned at last."
"Reason has returned. Since yesterday he has been perfectly sane. His first words were that his son should be sent for, that the truth should be told."
There was a half-suppressed sob. Lady Helena covered her face with both hands. Her nephew looked at her, then back to Miss Catheron. The white face kept its calm, the pitying eyes looked at him with a gentle compassion no words can tell.
"Wait one moment," she said; "I must tell him you are here."
She hurried upstairs and disappeared. Neither of the two spoke. Lady Helena's face was still hidden. He knew that she was crying—silent, miserable tears—tears that were for him. He stood pale, composed, expectant—waiting for the end.