ed girl"
had been fired; but when the glamour in which it had wrapped the man had
been torn away by the disclosure of some ugly facts concerning him; when
she broke with him in disgust, and induced others to break with him; it
was not her feelings, not her heart, which had suffered.

Nevertheless, so complex a thing is a woman, that as Victoria Tatham drew
nearer to the Tower, and to Melrose, she felt herself strangely melting
toward him--a prey to pity and the tears of things. She alone in this
countryside had been a witness of his meteor like youth; she alone could
set it beside his sordid and dishonoured age.

What did she hope to do with him? The plight of his wife and daughter had
roused her strongest and most indignant sympathy. The cry of wrong or
injustice had always found her fiercely responsive. Whatever an outsider
could do to help Melrose's local victims she had done, not once but many
times. Her mind was permanently in revolt against him, both as a man and
a landlord. She had watched and judged him for years. Yet, now that
yet another of his misdeeds was to bring her again into personal contact
with him, her pulse quickened; some memory of the old ascendency
survived.

It was a still and frosty evening. As the motor drew up in the walled
enclosure before the Tower, the noise of its brakes echoed through the
profound silence in which the Tower was wrapped. No sign of life in the
dark front; no ray of light anywhere from its shuttered windows.

Yet, to her astonishment, as she alighted, and before she had rung the
bell, the front door was thrown open, and Dixon with a couple of dogs at
his heels ran down the steps.

At sight however of the veiled and cloaked lady who had descended from
the motor, the old man stopped short, evidently surprised. With an
exclamation Victoria did not catch, he retreated to the threshold of the
house.

She mounted rapidly, not noticing that a telegraph boy on a bicycle had
come wheeling into the forecourt behind her.

"Is Mr. Melrose at home?"

As she threw back her veil, Dixon stared at her in dumb amazement. Then
she suddenly perceived behind him a tall figure advancing. She made a few
steps forward through the dimly lighted hall, and found herself within a
foot of Edmund Melrose himself.

He gave a start--checked himself--and stood staring at her. He wore
spectacles, and was leaning on a stick. She had a quick impression of
physical weakness and decay.

Without any