walk up and down
opposite the house with the big studio in which he was once a welcome
visitor. There was a light in one of the bedroom windows and in the
hall, and presently, as Fane watched, a brougham drove up to the door.
It waited a few moments before the house, then some one entered the
carriage. The door was banged; the horse moved on. Through the windows
Fane saw a woman's face, pale, against the pane. It was the face of
Sydney. For a moment he thought he would call to the coachman to stop.
Then he restrained himself, and again walked up and down, waiting. She
must return presently. He would speak to her as she was getting out of
the carriage. He would force her to receive him.

Towards nine o'clock his plans were altered by an event which took
place. The house door opened, and the footman came out with a handful of
letters for the post. The pillar-box was very near, and the man
carelessly left the hall door on the jar while he walked down the road.
Fane caught a glimpse of the hall that he knew so well. A step, and he
could be in the house. He hesitated. He looked down the road. The man
had his back turned, and was putting the letters into the box. Fane
slipped into the garden, up the steps, through the door. The hall was
empty. At his right was the passage leading to the studio. He stole down
it, and tried the door. It opened. In the darkness the heavy curtain
blew against his face. In another instant he closed the door softly at
his back, and stood alone in the wide space and the blackness. Here
there was not a glimmer of light. Thick curtains fell over the windows.
No fire burned upon the hearth. There was no sound except when a
carriage occasionally rolled down the road, and even then the wheels
sounded distant.

The silence and darkness had their effect upon Fane. He had done a
desperate thing; but, until he found himself alone in the vacant
studio, he had not fully realised the madness of his conduct, and how it
would appear to the world. After the first moments of solitude had
passed he came to himself a little, and half opened the door with the
intention of stealing out; but he heard steps in the hall, and shrank
back again like a guilty creature. He must wait, at least, until the
household retired to rest.

And, waiting, the old, haunting thoughts came back to assail him once
more. He began to brood over Sydney's cruel treatment of him, over her
vile suspicions. Here, in the atmosphere which he knew