at I
have? It is your need--it is your need that has given me the strength."

To himself he said,

"God keep my lips sealed."

To her he said,

"I must go."

She was startled.

"You remember the orchard, Peter?"

"As long as I remember anything, I shall remember that."

"You remember the walk straight through things?"

"Yes--you at my side."

"I have just taken it again--alone. I have pressed straight through."

There was a pause of a few seconds. Then,

"That is a hard thing for a woman to do."

There was a longer silence. Then she said tenderly,

"You look very tired. This day has been heavy to you. Go up-stairs to
your room and rest. Then in the morning--why, in the morning we may
both see clearer."

"I can rest nowhere. There is no rest left to me."

"Ah, you look so tired," she repeated.

He seized her hand and pressed it. Then he turned abruptly towards the
hall. She watched him with a new fright. He paused at the door, his
eyes drawn back to her against his will. She was standing there quite
helpless, a growing pallor sweeping over her cheeks that so lately had
been as richly red as rose leaves.

"God help me hard now," he moaned.

She stood before him like a marble statue. There were no tears.

"I have been very bold," she murmured. "I can never forgive myself
that."

"You have been wonderful!" he cried.

"Perhaps you had better go at once, Peter Donaldson," she said.

He saw her in a blinding white light.

"God keep you," he managed to say. "God keep you forever and ever."

He stumbled to the hall, found his hat, and staggered through the door.

At the hedge a shadow stole out to meet him. It was an ambitious young
reporter.

"Is this Mr. Donaldson?" he asked.

"Damn you, no!" shouted Donaldson. "Donaldson is dead!"

CHAPTER XXV

_The Shadow on the Floor_

Donaldson toiled up the dark staircase leading to Barstow's laboratory.
To him it was as though he were fighting his way through deep water
reaching twenty fathoms above his head. The air was just as cold as
green water; it contained scarcely more life. He felt the same sense
of clammy, lurking things, unknown things, such as crawl along the
slimy bottoms where rotting hulks lie. He was impelled here by the
same sort of fascination which is said to lead murderers back to their
victims, yet it seemed to be the only place where he would be able to
think at all. It was getting back to the begin