trying to keep a man who does not
love you. Go, Wentworth. You are right. There is nothing to keep you
here. In this room there are two people, one of whom has sinned and has
repented, and both of whom love you and have spoken the truth to you.
But there is no love and truth in you to rise up and meet theirs. You do
not know what love and truth are, even when you see them very close. You
had better go."

"I will go," said Wentworth, his eyes blazing. And he went out and shut
the door behind him.

Fay's hands slipped out of the Bishop's, her head fell forward, and she
sank down on the floor. The Bishop and Magdalen bent over her.

Michael looked a moment at her, and swiftly left the room. He overtook
Wentworth in the hall, groping blindly for his hat.

"Come in here," said Michael, "I want a word with you," and he half
pushed Wentworth into a room leading out of the hall. It was a dreary
little airless apartment with a broken blind, intended for a
waiting-room but fallen into disuse, and only partially furnished, the
corners piled with great tin boxes containing episcopal correspondence.

Michael closed the door.

"Wentworth," he said breathlessly, "you don't see. You don't understand.
Fay loves you." He looked earnestly at Wentworth as if the latter were
acting in some woeful ignorance, which one word would set right. He
seemed entirely oblivious of Wentworth's insulting words towards
himself.

"I see one thing," said Wentworth, "and that is that I'm not inclined to
marry your cast-off mistress."

Michael closed with him instantly, but not before Wentworth had seen the
lightning in his eyes; and the two men struggled furiously in the dim,
airless little room with its broken blind.

Wentworth knew Michael meant to kill him. The long, scarred hands had
him by the throat, were twisting themselves in the silk tie Fay had
knitted for him. He tore himself out of the grip of those iron fingers.
But Michael only sobbed and wound his arms round him. And Wentworth knew
he was trying to throw him, and break his back.

Wentworth fought for his life, but he was over-matched. The awful,
murderous hands were feeling for his neck again, the sobbing breath was
on his face, the glaring eyes staring into his. The hands closed on his
throat once more, squeezing his tongue out of his mouth, his eyes out of
his head. He made a last frightful struggle to wrench the hands away.
But they remained clutched into his flesh, choking hi