opening her arms to him with
a little sob, "if you send me away, I think that I shall kill myself.
Wingrave!"

There was a note of despair in her last cry. Her arms fell to her side.
Wingrave was on his way to the further end of the room. He rang the bell
and turned towards her.

"Listen," he said calmly, "you will return to London tonight. If ever
I require you, I shall send for you--and you will come. At present I do
not. You will return to your husband. Understand!"

"Yes," she gasped, "but--"

He held out his hand. Morrison was at the door.

"Morrison," he said, "you will order the motor to be round in half an
hour to take Lady Ruth to Truro, She has to catch the London express.
You will go with her yourself, and see that she has a reserved carriage.
If, by any chance, you should miss the train, order a special."

"Very good, sir."

"And tell the cook to send in tea and wine, and some sandwiches, in ten
minutes."

Once more they were alone. Lady Ruth rose slowly to her feet and,
trembling in every limb, she walked down the room and fell on her knees
before Wingrave.

"Wingrave," she said, "I will go away. I will do all that you tell me;
I will wear my chains bravely, and hold my peace. But before I go, for
heaven's sake, say a kind word, look at me kindly, kiss me, hold my
hands; anything, anything, anything to prove to me that you are not
a dead man. I could bear unkindness, reproaches, abuse. I can bear
anything but this deadly coldness. It is becoming a horror to me! Do,
Wingrave--do!"

She clasped his hand--he drew it calmly away.

"Lady Ruth," he said, "you have spoken the truth. I am a dead man. I
have no affections; I care neither for you nor for any living being. All
that goes to the glory and joy of life perished in that uncountable roll
of days, when the sun went out, and inch by inch the wall rose which
will divide me forever from you and all the world. Frankly, it was not
I who once loved you. It was the man who died in prison. His flesh and
bones may have survived--nothing else!"

She rose slowly to her feet. Her eyes seemed to be dilating.

"There is another woman!" she exclaimed softly. Her voice was like
velvet, but the agony in her face was unmistakable.

"There is no other woman," he answered.

She stood quite still.

"She is here with you now," she cried. "Who is it, Wingrave? Tell me the
truth!"

"The truth is already told," he answered. "Except my cook and her
assistants