pered, as it
swirled on. "Did you ever hear anything so awful? It's as if--as if God
were very furious--about something. Do you think He is, dear? Do you?"
She pressed close to him with white, pleading face upraised. "Do you
believe in God, Billikins? Honestly now!"

The man hesitated, holding her fast in his arms, seeing only the
quivering, childish mouth and beseeching eyes.

"You don't, do you?" she said. "I don't myself, Billikins. I think He's
just a myth. Or anyhow--if He's there at all--He doesn't bother about
the people who were born on the wrong side of the safety-curtain. There,
darling! Kiss me once more--I love your kisses--I love them! And now go!
Yes--yes, you must go--just while I make myself respectable. Yes, but
you can leave the door ajar, dear heart! I want to feel you close at
hand. I am yours--till I die--king and master!"

Her eyes were brimming with tears; he thought her overwrought and weary,
and passed them by in silence.

And so through that night of wonder, of violence, and of storm, she lay
against his heart, her arms wound about his neck with a closeness which
even sleep could not relax.

Out of the storm she had come to him, like a driven bird seeking refuge;
and through the fury of the storm he held her, compassing her with the
fire of his passion.

"I am safe now," she murmured once, when he thought her sleeping. "I am
quite--quite safe."

And he, fancying the raging of the storm had disturbed her, made hushing
answer, "Quite safe, wife of my heart."

She trembled a little, and nestled closer to his breast.

CHAPTER VII

THE HONEYMOON

"You can't mean to let your wife stay here!" ejaculated the colonel,
sharply. "You wouldn't do anything so mad!"

Merryon's hard mouth took a sterner downward curve. "My wife refuses to
leave me, sir," he said.

"Good heavens above, Merryon!" The colonel's voice held a species of
irritated derision. "Do you tell me you can't manage--a--a piece of
thistledown like that?"

Merryon was silent, grimly, implacably silent. Plainly he had no
intention of making such an admission.

"It's madness--criminal madness!" Colonel Davenant looked at him
aggressively, obviously longing to pierce that stubborn calm with which
Merryon had so long withstood the world.

But Merryon remained unmoved, though deep in his private soul he knew
that the colonel was right, knew that he had decided upon a course of
action that involved a risk which he drea