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 was undoubtedly my friend, but I knew nothing of the psychological history of his house. I made up my mind to treat the doctor's fears lightly, and proceeded in a steady and cheerful voice:—

"You must make full allowance for the terrible shock my poor friend has sustained."

"Yes, yes," said Grey; "of course, anyone would make allowance for grief and even violent distress, but the man's conduct is more than eccentric. Do you know what he has done?"

"No," I said. "What?"

"He is going to take that poor dead young woman home to Berkshire. I am given to understand that there were no end of demonstrations getting ready at his place for the return of the bride and bridegroom. He and Mrs. Raymond seem to have talked over this home-coming a good deal, and he says she shall cross the threshold of his house dead or living. He has given orders that a coffin is to be made for her out of some of the oak at Raymond Towers, and, in the meantime, she has been put into a hastly improvised shell, and the miserable funeral procession is to start from here at five o'clock to-morrow morning."

"So soon?" I inquired.

"Yes, there has been an awful hurry about everything. All arrangements are now, however, complete. Raymond has engaged a special train, and the line is to be cleared along the entire route; of course, at enormous expense. He has asked me to accompany him, but now that you have arrived, that will scarcely be necessary."

"Probably not," I answered.

We had by this time entered the house, and Grey took me upstairs to the wretched apology for a drawing-room where I had sat with Raymond a couple of days ago. He was not present; I looked around for him anxiously.

"He is in the room with his poor wife," said Grey, noticing my perturbed glance; "he spends almost all his time there. The worst place in the world for him, I should say, in his present state of nervous excitement."

"Well, 1 must go and find him," I said; "but before I do so I shall be glad if you will give me any particulars in your power with regard to Mrs. Raymond's last moments. When I left Llanmordaff two nights ago, I had not the slightest fears for the poor girl's life. I was anxious, of course, with regard to her state, but my anxiety pointed altogether to her mental condition. When did a change for the worst take place, and why was I not telegraphed for immediately?"

"There was no time. We none of us thought her dying until she was dead. I visited her twice the night you left, and found her quiet and inclined to sleep. She seemed to like the woman I had sent in to nurse her pro tem., and asked her to sit by her and hold her hand. The following morning she was very quiet and still sleeping. I visited her at about ten o'clock, took her temperature, which was normal, and felt her pulse. It was slow and fairly regular. I noticed, how-