ysterious instinct had warned her
then? But now Craven was hostile to her. How could she go to him? And
then there flashed upon her the thought:

"But I can't go to anybody! I have promised Adela."

That thought struck her like a blow, struck her so hard that she stood
still on the pavement. And she realized immediately that either she must
do without any help at all, or that, in spite of all that had happened,
she must ask Adela to help her. For she could never break her promise
to Adela. She knew that. She knew that she would rather go under than
betray Adela's confidence. Adela had done a fine thing, something that
she, Beryl, had not believed it was in any woman to do. She could not
have done it, but on the other hand she could not be vile. It was not in
her to be vile.

She heard a step in the darkness and realized what she was doing.
Instantly she hurried on, almost running. She must gain shelter, must be
in the midst of light, must be between four walls, must speak to someone
who knew her, and who would not do her harm. Claridge's--old Fanny! A
few minutes later she entered the hotel almost breathless.

CHAPTER VIII

On the following afternoon Craven called on Lady Sellingworth about five
o'clock and was told by the new footman in a rather determined manner
that she was "not at home."

"I hope her ladyship is quite well?" he said.

"I believe so, sir," replied the man. "Her ladyship has been out driving
to-day."

"Please give her that card. Wait one moment."

He pencilled on the card, "I hope you are better,--A.C.," gave it to
the man, and walked away, feeling sure that Lady Sellingworth was in the
house but did not choose to see him.

In the evening he received the following note from her:

18A, BERKELEY SQUARE,

Thursday.

DEAR MR. CRAVEN,--How kind of you to call and to write that little
message. I am sorry I could not see you. I'm not at all ill, and have
been out driving. But, between you and me--for I hate to make a fuss
about trifling matters of health--I feel rather played out. Perhaps it's
partly old age! You know nothing abut that. Any variation in my quiet
life seems to act as a disturbing influence. And the restaurant the
other night really was terribly hot. I mustn't go there again, though
it is great fun. I suppose you didn't see Beryl? She has been to see me,
but said nothing about it. Be nice to her. I don't think she has many
real friends in London.--Yours very sincerely,