"Forgive the question," he said, in his soft voice, "if it should seem impertinent,—but do you say that as a private member of the community, or as the wife of a man to whom so many eyes now turn in the hope that he may be able to do a great and much needed work for us all?"
Girt by the thought that Saul Hartz was at another table and that no fragment of their talk was likely to reach his ear, Helen confessed that she was now haunted, not so much on her own account as on that of her husband, by a great fear.
Something in her manner seemed to impress Wygram deeply. "Tell me," he said, in a voice hardly above a whisper, "just what it is that you fear in regard to him in the near future?"
"It is too vague to be put into words," said Helen, anxiously. But again she shivered, and again Wygram looked at her with his questioning eyes.
He forbore, however, from pressing the point further. So sharp was her distress that he gave the subject an adroit turn, and did not refer to it again. But this talk, all the same, made a profound impression upon Helen.
Next morning she breakfasted early, at the beck of a strong desire to catch the first possible train. London, her home, her husband were calling her. A second night of very little sleep had made Cloudesley and its surroundings almost intolerable. She was oppressed
