He turned and wandered once more through the abbey, strayed in the grounds, and at last came to the park gates.  Then he walked to the town a couple of miles away, went to the railway station and took a train for Herridon.  He arrived there some time before the coach did.  He went straight to the View House, proceeded to his room and sat down to write some letters.  Presently he got up, went down to the office and asked the porter if Mrs. John Gladney had arrived from London.  The porter said she had.  He then felt in his pocket for a card, but changed his mind, saying to himself that his name would have no meaning for her.  He took a piece of letter paper and wrote on it, “A friend of your husband brings a message to you.”  He put it in an envelope, and, addressing it, sent it up to her.  The servant returned, saying that Mrs. Gladney had taken a sitting room in a house adjacent to the hotel and was probably there.  He took the note and went to the place indicated, sent in the note and waited.

When Mrs. Gladney received the note, she was arranging the few knick-knacks she had brought.  She read the note hurriedly and clinched it in her hand.  “It is his writing—­his, Mark Telford!  He, my husband’s friend!  Good God!”

For a moment she trembled violently and ran her fingers through her golden hair distractedly, but she partly regained her composure, came forward and told the servant to show him into the room.  She was a woman of instant determination.  She drew the curtains closer, so that the room would be almost dark to one entering from the sunlight.  Then she stood with her back to the light of the window.  He saw a figure standing in the shadow, came forward and bowed, not at first looking closely at the face.

“I have come from your husband,” he said.  “My name is Mark Telford”—­

“Yes, I know,” she interrupted.

He started, came a little nearer and looked curiously at her.  “Ida—­Ida Royal!” he exclaimed.  “Are you—­you—­John Gladney’s wife?”

“He is my husband.”

Telford folded his arms, and, though pale and haggard, held himself firmly.  “I could not have wished this for my worst enemy,” he said at last “Gladney and I have been more than brothers.”

“In return for having”—­

“Hush!” he interrupted.  “Do you think anything you may say can make me feel worse than I do?  I tell you we have lain under the same blankets month in, month out, and he saved my life.”

“What is the message you bring?” she asked.

“He begs you to live with him again, you and your child.  The property he settled on you for your lifetime he will settle on your child.  Until this past few days he was himself poor.  To-day he is rich—­money got honestly, as you may guess.”

“And if I am not willing to be reconciled?”

“There was no condition.”

“Do you know all the circumstances?  Did he tell you?”

“No, he did not tell me.  He said that he left you suddenly for a reason, and when he wished to return you would not have him.  That was all.  He never spoke but kindly of you.”