it? He's so clever. I always ask him about
puzzling things."

"Nick?" Violet's eyes came round to her. "He's a soldier, isn't he? He
has killed people."

"I don't know. I suppose so," said Olga. "He is just outside. May I
fetch him?"

"Oh, yes, I don't mind Nick. He's got some sense. But I won't have Max,
Allegro. He is not to come near me. I've found him out, and I hate him!"
The deep voice suddenly grew deeper. A flame of fierce resentment
leaped up in the roving eyes. "I know now exactly why he has been so
attentive all this time. I thought--I used to think--he was in love with
me--like other men. But I know now that he was only making a study of
me, because he knew that I was going mad. Bruce must have told him that.
I've often wondered why he and Bruce were so friendly. I know now that
they were in league against me. Bruce never liked me--naturally. No one
ever liked me but you, Allegro."

"Shall I call Nick?" said Olga, gently bringing her back to the point.

"Oh, if you like. But no! Cork would never let any man come in here. I
will come downstairs. We'll have some lunch, and then smoke." Violet
sprang from the bed with sudden decision. "Heavens!" she exclaimed, as
she caught a glimpse of herself in her glass. "What a hag I look! I
can't go down in this. It looks like a bedgown. Find me something,
Allegro! That red silk will do. I believe everything else is at Weir.
You will have to send my things back, for I am going to stay here now.
I've had enough of Max Wyndham's tyranny. I must have my own way or I
shall rave."

With impulsive hands she tore off her tumbled muslin dress, and arrayed
herself in the flaming evening robe which Olga had once condemned. Olga
raised no protest now. She gave her silent assistance. The horrors of
that day had so closed in upon her that she felt fantastically convinced
that nothing she did or left undone could make any difference, or hinder
for the fraction of an instant the fate that so remorselessly pursued
them and was surely every moment drawing nearer. The fear at her heart
had so wound itself into her very being that she was no longer conscious
of it. It possessed her like an evil spell.

So she stood by, sometimes helping, always watching, while her friend's
tragedy leaped from point to point like a spreading forest-fire breeding
destruction.

"You are not afraid of me, Allegro?" Violet asked her suddenly, as she
arranged her black hair with swift, feverish movement