“I will see to that.”

Ramsay hesitated a moment and then said—­“What are we to call her?  It will not be possible, I imagine, to keep her presence here altogether a secret.  She called herself, in talking to Miss Alcott, Madame Melegrani.”

“Why not?  As to explaining her, I hardly know what to say.”

Buntingford put his hand across his eyes; the look of weariness, of perplexity, intensified ten-fold.

“An acquaintance of yours in Italy, come to ask you for help?” suggested Ramsay.

Buntingford withdrew his hand.

“No!” he said with decision.  “Better tell the truth!  She was my wife.  She left me, as she has told the Alcotts, and took steps eleven years ago to make me believe her dead.  And up to seven years ago, she passed as the wife of a man whom I knew by the name of Sigismondo Rocca.  When the announcement of her death appeared, I set enquiries on foot at once, with no result.  Latterly, I have thought it must be true; but I have never been quite certain.  She has reappeared now, it seems, partly because she has no resources, and partly in order to restore to me my son.”

“Your son!” said Ramsay, startled.

“She tells me that a boy was born after she left me, and that I am the father.  All that I must verify.  No need to say anything whatever about that yet.  Her main purpose, no doubt, was to ask for pecuniary assistance, in order to go to America.  In return she will furnish my lawyers with all the evidence necessary for my divorce from her.”

Ramsay slowly shook his head.

“I doubt whether she will ever get to America.  She has worn herself out.”

There was a silence.  Then Buntingford added: 

“If these kind people would keep her, it would be the best solution.  I would make everything easy for them.  To-morrow I go up to Town—­to the address she has given me.  And—­I should be glad if you would come with me?”

The doctor looked surprised.

“Of course—­if you want me—­”

“The boy—­his mother says—­is abnormal—­deficient.  An injury at birth.  If you will accompany me I shall know better what to do.”

A grasp of the hand, a look of sympathy answered; and they parted.  Buntingford emerged from the little Rectory to find Alcott again waiting for him in the garden.  The sun had set some time and the moon was peering over the hills to the east.  The mounting silver rim suddenly recalled to Buntingford the fairy-like scene of the night before?—­the searchlight on the lake, the lights, the music, and the exquisite figure of Helena dancing through it all.  Into what Vale of the Shadow of Death had he passed since then?—­

Alcott and he turned into the plantation walk together.  Various practical arrangements were discussed between them.  Alcott and his sister would keep the sick woman in their house as long as might be necessary, and Buntingford once more expressed his gratitude.