It was about one o’clock.  Saying she would be able to lunch at her aunt’s house, Irene forthwith made ready, and drove to Campden Hill.  She was led into the drawing-room, and sat there, alone, for five minutes; then Olga entered.  The girls advanced to each other with a natural gesture of distress.

“She’s asleep, I’m glad to say,” Olga whispered, as if still in a sickroom.  “I persuaded her to lie down.  I don’t think she has closed her eyes the last two or three nights.  Can you wait?  Oh, do, if you can!  She does so want to see you.”

“But why, dear?  Of course I will wait; but why does she ask for me?”

Olga related all that had come to pass, in her knowledge.  Only by ceaseless importunity had she constrained her mother to reveal the cause of an anguish which could no longer be disguised.  The avowal had been made yesterday, not long before Dr. Derwent’s coming to the house.

“I wanted to tell you, but she had forbidden me to speak to anyone.  What’s the use of trying to keep such a thing secret?  If uncle had not come, I should have telegraphed for him.  Of course he made her tell him, and it has put her at rest for a little; she fell asleep as soon as she lay down.  Her dread is that we shan’t believe her.  She wants, I think, only to declare to you that she has done no wrong.”

“As if I could doubt her word!”

Irene tried to shape a question, but could not speak.  Her cousin also was mute for a moment.  Their eyes met, and fell.

“You remember Mr. Otway’s brother?” said Olga, in an unsteady voice, and then ceased.

“He?  Daniel Otway?”

Irene had turned pale; she spoke under her breath.  At once there recurred to her the unexplained incident at Malvern Station.

“I knew mother was foolish in keeping up an acquaintance with him,” Olga answered, with some vehemence.  “I detested the man, what I saw of him.  And I suspect—­of course mother won’t say—­he has been having money from her.”

An exclamation of revolted feeling escaped Irene.  She could not speak her thoughts; they were painful almost beyond endurance.  She could not even meet her cousin’s look.

“It’s a hideous thing to talk about,” Olga pursued, her head bent and her hands crushing each other, “no wonder it seems to be almost driving her mad.  What do you think she did, as soon as she received the notice?  She sent for Piers Otway, and told him, and asked him to help her.  He came in the afternoon, when I was out.  Think how dreadful it must have been for her!”

“How could he help her?” asked Irene, in a strangely subdued tone, still without raising her eyes.

“By seeing his brother, she thought, and getting him, perhaps, to persuade my father—­how I hate the name!—­that there were no grounds for such an action.”

“What”—­Irene forced each syllable from her lips—­“what are the grounds alleged?”