when she moved close to him, her
small face pale and tumultuous.

"I arranged it--I must speak to you," she gasped. "He'll be back in five
minutes."

Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly.

Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about him
at the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the strange picture
overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl whispering of conspiracies in a
voice meant to exchange platitudes with a curate.

"How can I help you?" he said with a rush of compassion.

"Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; it's so
difficult--he watches me--he'll be back immediately."

"Try to tell me what I can do."

"I don't dare; I feel as if he were behind me." She turned away, fixing
her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. "There he comes, and
I haven't spoken! It was my only chance; but it bewilders me so to be
hurried."

"I don't hear any one," said Wyant, listening. "Try to tell me."

"How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain." She
drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge--"Will you come here again
this afternoon--at about five?" she whispered.

"Come here again?"

"Yes--you can ask to see the picture,--make some excuse. He will come
with you, of course; I will open the door for you--and--and lock you
both in"--she gasped.

"Lock us in?"

"You see? You understand? It's the only way for me to leave the
house--if I am ever to do it"--She drew another difficult breath.
"The key will be returned--by a safe person--in half an hour,--perhaps
sooner--"

She trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against the settle for
support.

"Wyant looked at her steadily; he was very sorry for her.

"I can't, Miss Lombard," he said at length.

"You can't?"

"I'm sorry; I must seem cruel; but consider--"

He was stopped by the futility of the word: as well ask a hunted rabbit
to pause in its dash for a hole!

Wyant took her hand; it was cold and nerveless.

"I will serve you in any way I can; but you must see that this way is
impossible. Can't I talk to you again? Perhaps--"

"Oh," she cried, starting up, "there he comes!"

Doctor Lombard's step sounded in the passage.

Wyant held her fast. "Tell me one thing: he won't let you sell the
picture?"

"No--hush!"

"Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that."

"The future?"

"In case he should die: your father is an old man. You haven