me, her explanations, her
prayers for a promise from him that never, never would he go looking
again for a vision that did not exist. At last he promised, and almost
immediately fell asleep.

As for Christine Chaine, she stayed where she was on the floor, her
head resting on the bed in sheer exhaustion, her limbs limp. All
thought of going into the garden had left her. Sitting there,
stiff-kneed and weary, she thought of Saltire's eyes, and realized that
there had come and gone an evening which she must count for ever among
the lost treasures of her life. Yet she did not regret it as she rose
at last and looked down by the dim light on the pale, beautiful, but
composed little face on the pillow.

She lay long awake. Roddy's bed was too short for her, and there was
no ease in it, even had her mind and heart been at rest. All the
fantasies she had beguiled from the boy's brain had come to roost in
her own, with a hundred other vivid and painful impressions. The
night, too, was fuller than usual of disquietude. The wind, which had
been rising steadily, now tore at the shutters and rushed shrieking
through the trees. There was a savage rumble of thunder among the
hills, and, intermittently, lightning came through the shutter-slats.

When, above it all, she heard a gentle tapping, and sensed the
whispering presence without, her cup of dreadful unease was full. But
she was not afraid. She rose, as she had done one night before, and
put on her dressing-gown. For a while, standing close to the shutters,
she strained her ears to catch the message whose import she knew so
well. The idea of speaking to someone or something as anxious as
herself over Roddy had banished all horror. She longed for an
interview with the strange being without. There was nothing to do but
attempt, as before, to leave the house by the front door.

Down the long passage and through the dining-room she felt her way,
moving noiselessly. When she came to the door, she found it once again
with the bar hanging loose. More, it was ajar, and stirring
(sluggishly, by reason of its great weight) to the wind. But her hand
fell back when she would have opened it wide, for there were two people
in the blackness of the porch, bidding each other good-night with
kisses and wild words. Clear on a gust of wind came Isabel van
Cannan's voice, fiercely passionate.

"I hate the place. Oh, to be gone from it, Dick! To be gone with you,
my darling!