and she easily discovered that of Ross
Mallard. This door was half open; she looked in and saw a flight of
stairs. Having ascended these, she came to another door, which was
closed. Here her purpose seemed to falter; she looked back, and held
her hand for a moment against her cheek. But at length she knocked.
There was no answer. She knocked again, more loudly, leaning forward to
listen; and this time there came a distant shout for reply.
Interpreting it as summons to enter, she turned the handle; the door
opened, and she stepped into a little ante-chamber. From a room within
came another shout, now intelligible.

"Who's there?"

She advanced, raised a curtain, and found herself in the studio, but
hidden behind some large canvases. There was a sound of some one
moving, and when she had taken another step, Mallard himself, pipe in
mouth, came face to face with her. With a startled look, he took the
pipe from his lips, and stood regarding her; she met his gaze with the
same involuntary steadiness.

"Are you alone, Mr. Mallard?" fell at length from her.

"Yes. Come and sit down."

There was a gruffness in the invitation which under ordinary
circumstances would have repelled a visitor. But Cecily was so glad to
hear the familiar voice that its tone mattered nothing; she followed
him, and seated herself where he bade her. There was much tobacco-smoke
in the air; Mallard opened a window. She watched him with timid,
anxious eyes. Then, without looking at her, he sat down near an easel
on which was his painting of the temples of Paestum. This canvas held
Cecily's gaze for a moment.

"When did you get home?" Mallard asked abruptly.

"Yesterday morning."

"Mrs. Lessingham went on, I suppose?"

"Yes. I have been alone ever since, except that a visitor called."

"Alone?"

She met his eyes, and asked falteringly:

"You know why? You have heard about it?"

"Do you mean what happened the other day?" he returned, in a voice that
sounded careless, unsympathetic.

"Yes."

"I know that, of course. Where is your husband?"

"I have neither seen him nor heard from him. I shouldn't have
understood why he kept away but for the visitor that came--a lady; she
showed me a newspaper."

Mallard knit his brows, and now scowled at her askance, now looked
away. His visage was profoundly troubled. There was silence for some
moments. Cecily's eyes wandered unconsciously over the paintings and
other objects about her.

"You have