“Ingrate!” was the word she hurled in a voice from which all its seductive music had gone forever.  “Where are you going?  Are they carrying you alive to your grave?”

A moan from Helena’s pale lips, then silence.  She had fainted at that barbed attack.  But there was one there who dared to answer for her and he spoke relentlessly.  It was the man who loved her.

“No, madam.  We are carrying her to safety.  You must know what I mean by that.  Let her go quietly and you may die in peace.  Otherwise—­”

She interrupted him with a loud call, startling into life the echoes of that haunted hall: 

“Humphrey!  Come to me, Humphrey!”

But no Humphrey appeared.

Another call, louder and more peremptory than before: 

“Humphrey!  I say, Humphrey!”

But the answer was the same—­silence, and only silence.  As the horror of this grew, the doctor spoke: 

“Mr. Humphrey Dunbar’s ears are closed to all earthly summons.  He died last night at the very hour he said he would—­four minutes after two.”

“Four minutes after two!” It came from her lips in a whisper, but with a revelation of her broken heart and life.  “Four minutes after two!” And defiant to the last, her head rose, and for an instant, for a mere breath of time, they saw her as she had looked in her prime, regal in form, attitude, and expression; then the will which had sustained her through so much, faltered and succumbed, and with a final reiteration of the words “Four minutes after two!” she broke into a rattling laugh, and fell back into the arms of her old nurse.

And below, one clock struck the hour and then another.  But not the big one at the foot of the stairs.  That still stood silent, with its hands pointing to the hour and minute of Frank Postlethwaite’s hastened death.

END OF PROBLEM VI

PROBLEM VII

THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK

Violet had gone to her room.  She had a task before her.  That afternoon, a packet had been left at the door, which, from a certain letter scribbled in one corner, she knew to be from her employer.  The contents of that packet must be read, and she had made herself comfortable with the intention of setting to work at once.  But ten o’clock struck and then eleven before she could bring herself to give any attention to the manuscript awaiting her perusal.  In her present mood, a quiet sitting by the fire, with her eyes upon the changeful flame, was preferable to the study of any affair her employer might send her.  Yet, because she was conscious of the duty she thus openly neglected, she sat crouched over her desk with her hand on the mysterious packet, the string of which, however, she made no effort to loosen.

What was she thinking of?

We are not alone in our curiosity on this subject.  Her brother Arthur, coming unperceived into the room, gives tokens of a similar interest.  Never before had he seen her oblivious to an approaching step; and after a momentary contemplation of her absorbed figure, so girlishly sweet and yet so deeply intent, he advances to her side, and peering earnestly into her face, observes with a seriousness quite unusual to him: