by a sense of being urgently needed elsewhere. Hour by hour, a conviction had gained strength in her mind that something was about to happen to John.
Perhaps "the something" had happened already. Who could say? An obsession seized her that such was the case. At all events, the breaking of his engagement for the week-end, without being able to give a reason, a proceeding altogether unlike him, lent color to this new and harsh belief. Both Hartz and Wygram, men whose every word meant much, had dropped more than one hint that her husband was in the toils of ineluctable fate.
Helen could not hope for peace of mind until she was back in Brompton Square. And soon after half past eight, as she crossed the hall to the car which was to take her to the station, with every thought fixed upon getting away from this hive of unpleasant memories, a simple thing happened which yet seemed to add tenfold to her fears.
Wygram, who was just coming down to breakfast, intercepted her at the foot of the stairs. "Good-by, my dear Mrs. Endor," he said, in a cordial tone. And then in one much lower, but of vital urgency, "Take care of your husband. The world has need of him. And if in the course of the next few days you feel you must have a friend whom you can really trust, please remember your compatriot, George Hierons, who, I believe, is still in London. It may be, of course, that the need will not arise. Sincerely one hopes it may
