not afford to yield to the feeling, when the last chance she had of
getting definite information was passing from her. Knitting both hands
firmly inside her muff, she asked, with an earnestness which, to one
who knew, was fatally tale-telling: "Did anyone you were acquainted
with leave, Maurice?"

"Yes," said the young man at her side, with brusque determination. He
remained untouched by the tone of appeal in which Ephie put the
question; for he himself suffered under her continued hedging. "Yes,"
he said, "some one did, and that was a man called Schilsky--a tall,
red-haired fellow, a violinist. But he has only just gone. He came back
after the vacation to settle his affairs, and say good-bye to his
friends. Is there anything else you want to know?"

He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. After
all, Ephie was such a child. He could not see her face, which was
hidden by the brim of the big hat, but there was something pathetic in
the line of her chin, and the droop of her arms and shoulders. She
seemed to shrink under his words--to grow smaller. As he stood aside to
let her pass before him, through the house-door in the BRUDERSTRASSE,
he had a quick revulsion of feeling. Instead of being rough and cruel
to her, he should have tried to win her confidence with brotherly
kindness. But he had had room in his mind for nothing but the meeting
with Louise, and now there was no more time; they were going up the
stairs. All he could do was to say gently: "I ought to tell you, Ephie,
that the person we are going to see has been very, very ill--and needs
treating with the utmost consideration. I rely on your tact and
good-feeling."

But Ephie did not reply; the colour had left her face, and for once,
the short upper-lip closed firmly on the lower one. For some minutes
amazed anger with Maurice was all she felt. Then, however, came the
knowledge of what his words meant: he knew--Maurice knew; he had seen
through her fictions; he would tell on her; there would be dreadful
scenes with Joan; there would be reproaches and recriminations; she
would be locked up, or taken away. As for what lay beyond, his
assertion that Schilsky had been there--had been and gone, without a
word to her--that was a sickening possibility, which, at present, her
mind could not grasp. She grew dizzy under these blows that rained down
on her, one after the other. And meanwhile, she had to keep up
appearances, to go on as though nothin