lent hammering at her bedroom door,
and Doyle's voice outside, a savage voice that she scarcely recognized.
When she had thrown on her dressing gown and opened the door he had
instantly caught her by the shoulder, and she bore the imprints of his
fingers for days.

"Did you lock the kitchen door?" he demanded, his tones thick with fury.

"Yes. Why not?" She tried to shake off his hand, but failed.

"None of your business why not," he said, and gave her an angry shake.
"Hereafter, when you find that door open, you leave it that way. That's
all."

"Take your hands off me!" She was rather like her grandfather at that
moment, and his lost caution came back. He freed her at once and laughed
a little.

"Sorry!" he said. "I get a bit emphatic at times. But there are times
when a locked door becomes a mighty serious matter."

The next day he removed the key from the door, and substituted a bolt.
Elinor made no protest.

Another night Elinor was taken ill, and Lilly had been forced to knock
at the study door and call Doyle. She had an instant's impression of the
room crowded with strange figures. The heavy odors of sweating bodies,
of tobacco, and of stale beer came through the half-open door and
revolted her. And Doyle had refused to go upstairs.

She began to feel that she could not remain there very long. The
atmosphere was variable. It was either cynical or sinister, and she
hated them both. She had a curious feeling, too, that Doyle both wanted
her there and did not want her, and that he was changing his attitude
toward her Aunt Elinor. Sometimes she saw him watching Elinor from under
half-closed eyelids.

But she could not fill her days with anxieties and suspicions, and she
turned to Louis Akers as a flower to the open day. He at least was what
he appeared to be. There was nothing mysterious about him.

He came in daily, big, dominant and demonstrative, filling the house
with his presence, and demanding her in a loud, urgent voice. Hardly had
the door slammed before he would call:

"Lily! Where are you?"

Sometimes he lifted her off her feet and held her to him.

"You little whiffet!" he would say. "I could crush you to death in my
arms."

Had his wooing all been violent she might have tired sooner, because
those phases of his passion for her tired her. But there were times when
he put her into a chair and sat on the floor at her feet, his handsome
face uplifted to hers in a sort of humble adoration, his