For many days, meanwhile, Sir Gilbert had hovered between life and death, and Elma had watched his illness daily with profound and absorbing interest. For in her deep, intuitive way she felt certain to herself that their one chance now lay in Sir Gilbert’s own sense of remorse and repentance. She didn’t yet know, to be sure—what Sir Gilbert himself knew—that if he recovered he would, in all probability, have to sit in trial on another man for the crime he had himself committed. But she did feel this,—that Sir Gilbert would surely never stand by and let an innocent man die for his own transgression.

IF he recovered, that was to say. But perhaps he would not recover. Perhaps his life would flicker out by degrees in the midst of his delirium, and he would go to his grave unconfessed and unforgiven! Perhaps even, for his wife’s and daughter’s sake, he would shrink from revealing what Elma felt to be the truth, and would rest content to die, leaving Guy Waring to clear himself at the trial, as best he might, from this hateful accusation.

It would be unjust. It would be criminal. Yet Sir Gilbert might do it.

Elma had a bad time, therefore, during all those long days, even before Guy returned to England. She knew his life hung by a slender thread, which Sir Gilbert Gildersleeve might cut short at any moment. But her anxiety was as nothing compared to Sir Gilbert’s own. That unhappy man, a moral coward at heart, in spite of all his blustering, lay writhing in his own room now, very ill, and longing to be worse, longing to die, as the easiest way out of this impossible difficulty. For his wife’s sake, for Gwendoline’s sake, it was better he should die; and if only he could, he would have left Guy Waring to his fate contentedly. His anger against Guy burnt so bright now at last that he would have sacrificed him willingly, provided he was not there himself to see and know it. What did the man mean by living on to vex him? Over and over again the unhappy judge wished himself dead, and prayed to be taken. But that powerful frame, though severely broken by the shock, seemed hardly able to yield up its life merely because its owner was anxious to part with it.

After a fortnight’s severe illness, hovering all the time between hope and fear, the doctor came one day, and looked at him hard.

“How is he?” Lady Gildersleeve asked, seeing him hold his breath and consider.

To her great surprise the doctor answered, “Better; against all hope, better.” And indeed Sir Gilbert was once more convalescent. A week or two abroad, it was said, would restore him completely.

Then Elma had another terrible source of doubt. Would the doctors order Sir Gilbert abroad so long that he would be out of England when the trial took place? If so, he might miss many pricks of remorse. She must take some active steps to arouse his conscience.

Sir Gilbert, himself, now recovering fast, fought hard, as well he might, for such leave of absence. He was quite unfit, he said, to return to his judicial work so soon. Though he had said nothing about it in public before (this was the tenor of his talk) he was a man of profound but restrained feelings, and he had felt, he would admit, the absence of Gwendoline’s lover—especially when combined with the tragic death of Colonel Kelmscott, the father, and the memory of the unpleasantness that had once subsisted, through the Colonel’s blind obstinacy, between the two houses. This sudden news of the young man’s return had given him a nervous shock of which few would have believed him capable. “You wouldn’t think to look at me,” Sir Gilbert said plaintively, smoothing down his bedclothes with those elephantine hands of his, “I was the sort of man to be knocked down in this way;” and the great specialist from London, gazing at him with a smile, admitted to himself that he certainly would not have thought it.

“Oh, nonsense, my dear sir,” the specialist answered, however, to all his appeals. “This is the merest passing turn, I assure you. I couldn’t conscientiously say you’d be unfit for duty by the time the assizes come round again. It’s clear to me, on the contrary, with a physique like yours, you’ll pull yourself together in something less than no time with a week or so at Spa. Before you’re due in England to take up harness again you’ll be walking miles at a stretch over those heathery hills there. Convalescence, with a man like you, is a rapid process. In a fortnight from to-day, I’ll venture to guarantee, you’ll be in a fit condition to swim the Channel on your back, or to take one of your famous fifty-mile tramps across the bogs of Dartmoor. I’ll give you a tonic that’ll set your nerves all right at once. You’ll come back from Spa as fresh as a da............