its stopping at the door, of the wire trays, of the raising of
the Thorne basement window and the slow thump of the delivery of the
allotted number of bottles.

After a long time a little frightened face stared at him round the door.
Turning his head slowly, he saw Miss Bennett, her gray hair brushed
straight back from her face and her eyes large and staring.

"Is she dead?" she whispered.

O'Bannon shook his head, and hardly making a sound, his lips formed the
words, "Go away."

Miss Bennett really couldn't do that.

"It's almost five o'clock," she said reproachfully.

He nodded.

"Go away," he said.

In her bright satin dressing gown she sat down, but he could see that
she was nervous and uncertain. He summoned all the powers of will that
he possessed; he fixed his eyes on her, compelling her to look at him;
and when he felt he had gathered her in he raised his right hand and
gently but decisively pointed to the door. She got up and went out.

The fire had burned itself completely out now, and the cold of the hours
before dawn began to penetrate the room. O'Bannon began to apprehend the
fact that this night must some time end--that Lydia must presently wake
up. He dreaded the moment there would be more anger, more repudiation of
the obvious bond between them, more torture and separation. He
shivered, and leaning forward he softly drew her cloak from a
neighboring chair and laid it over her, tucking it in about her
shoulders. He was afraid the movement might have waked her, but she
seemed to sleep on.

Again the minutes began to slip enchantedly away, and then far away in
the house, in some remote upper story, he heard a footstep. Housemaids.
Inwardly be called down the curse of heaven upon them. He glanced down
at Lydia, and suddenly knew--how he knew it he could not say--that she
had heard it too; that she had been awake a long time, since he put the
cloak over her--perhaps since Miss Bennett had left the room.

Awake and content! His heart began to beat loudly, violently.

"Lydia," he said.

She did not move or answer, only he felt that her head pressed more
closely into the hollow of his arm.

THE END

THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

DANGEROUS DAYS.

A brilliant story of married life. A romance of fine purpose and
stirring appeal.

THE AMAZING INTERLUDE.

Illustrations by The Kinneys.

The story of a great love which cannot be pictured--an
interlude--amazing, romantic.

L