he hour of
return was near, she came along the piazza, mounted the stair to the next
floor and came along the upper piazza to the window of Richard Pinckney's
bedroom.

The window was open and, pushing the curtains aside, she went in.

CHAPTER IX

Richard Pinckney went to his room at eleven that night. He rarely retired
before twelve, but to-night he had packing to do as Jabez, his man, was
away and he knew better than to trust Seth.

He packed his portmanteau and left it lying open in case he had forgotten
anything that could be put in at the last moment. Then he packed a kit-bag
and, having smoked a cigarette, went to bed.

But he did not fall asleep. As a rule he slept at once on lying down, but
to-night he lay awake.

He was miserable; going away was death to him, but he was going.

First of all, because he had said that he was going. Secondly, because he
wanted to hit and hurt Phyl whom he loved, thirdly, because he wanted to
torture himself, fourthly, because he loathed and hated Silas Grangerson,
fifthly, because in his heart of hearts he knew what he was doing was
wrong.

You never know really what is in a man till he is pinched by Love. Love
may stun him with a blow or run a dagger into him without bringing his
worst qualities to light whilst a sly pinch will raise devils--all the
miserable devils that march under the leadership of Pique.

If he had not loved Phyl the fact of her going off with Silas for a drive
after what had occurred on the night before would have hurt him. Loving
her it had maddened him.

He was not angry with her now, so he told himself--just disgusted.

Meanwhile he could not sleep. The faithful St. Michael's kept him well
aware of this fact. He lit a candle and tried to read, smoked a cigarette
and then, blowing the candle out, tried to sleep. But insomnia had him
fairly in her grip; to-night there was no escape from her and he lay
whilst the moon, creeping through the sky, cast her light on the piazza
outside.

St. Michael's chimed the quarter after two and sleep, long absent, was
coming at last when, suddenly, the sound of a light footstep on the piazza
drove her leagues away.

Then outside in the full moonlight he saw a figure. It was Phyl, fully
dressed, standing with outstretched hands. Her eyes wide open, fixed, and
sightless, told their tale. She was asleep.

She moved the curtains aside and entered the room, darkening the window
space, passed across the r