denly pale. Her eyes no longer looked into his; they were
fixed steadfastly upon the fire.

"It is not at all probable," she said, nervously lacing and
interlacing her slim white fingers. "No, it is scarcely possible.
You would not be likely to meet her. Your friends would not be her
friends. She knows so few people. Ah!"

She started quickly. The door had opened, but it was only Gomez, who
had come in with a tray for the empty tea-things. There was a dead
silence whilst he removed them. Paul scarcely knew what to say. His
hostess puzzled him completely. Perhaps this step-daughter, whose
name, together with her own, she seemed so anxious to conceal, was
mad, and she had brought her down here instead of sending her to an
asylum; or perhaps she herself was mad. He glanced at her furtively,
and at once dismissed the latter idea. Her face, careworn and
curiously pallid though it was, was the face of no madwoman. It was
the face of a woman who had passed through a fiery sea of this world's
trouble and suffering--suffering which had left its marks stamped upon
her features; but, of his own accord, he would never have put it down
as the face of a weak or erring woman.

There was a mystery--of that he felt sure; but it was no part of his
business to seek to unravel it. The best thing he could do, he felt,
was to get up and go. He could scarcely maintain a conversation
without asking or implying questions which seemed to painfully
embarrass his hostess.

"I'm very much obliged to you," he said, rising and holding out his
hand. "I feel quite a new man! If you don't mind I'd like to leave
my mare here until to-morrow. She really isn't fit to travel. My man
shall come for her early."

"Pray do!" she answered quickly. "Ah!"

She had started, and clutched at the back of her chair with trembling
fingers. Her eyes, wide open and startled, were fixed upon the door.

Paul, too, turned round, and uttered a little cry. His heart beat
fast, and the room swam before him. He stood for a moment perfectly
still, with his eyes fastened upon the figure in the doorway.

CHAPTER XV

"AND MOST OF ALL WOULD I FLY FROM THE CRUEL MADNESS OF LOVE"

It was Adrea--Adrea herself! She stood there in the shadow of the
doorway, with her lips slightly parted, and her great eyes, soft and
brilliant, flashing in the ruddy firelight. It was no vision; it was
she beyond a doubt!

Even when the first shock had passed away, he found himself wit