o Nigel as a
doctor, to come as my friend, otherwise I don't think you'll have an
opportunity of doing him much good."

The cleverness of Isaacson, that cleverness which came from the Jewish
blood within him, linked hands with the defiant adroitness of this woman
even to-night and in the climax of suspicion. Why, with her powers, had
she made such a tragic mess of her life? Why, with her powers, had she
never been able to run straight along the way that leads to happiness?
Useless questions! Their answer must be sought for far down in the
secret depths of character. And now?

"If you come to Nigel when I call you in it will be all right, not
otherwise, believe me."

She sat back on the divan. The greyness had gone out of her face. She
looked now at her ease. Isaacson remembered how this woman had got the
better of him in London, how she had looked as she stood in her room at
the Savoy, when he saw her for the last time before she married his
friend. She had been dressed in rose colour that day. Now she was in
black--for Harwich. It seemed that for evening wear she had brought some
"thin mourning." Did he mean her to get the better of him again?

"But you will not call me in," he said bluntly.

"Why not? As a doctor I rather believe in you."

"Nevertheless, you will not call me in."

"If Doctor Hartley desires a consultation, I promise you that I will. I
hope you won't make your fee too heavy. You must remember we are almost
poor people now."

It was very seldom that Isaacson changed colour; but at these words his
dark face slowly reddened.

"If you suppose that--that I want to make money--" he began.

"It's always nice, if one takes a holiday, to be able to pay one's
expenses. But I know you won't run Nigel in for too much."

Isaacson got up. His instinct was to go, to get away at once from this
woman. For a moment he forgot the voice he had heard in the night; he
forgot the words it had said. His egoism and his pride spoke, and told
him to get away.

She read him. She got up, too, came away from her place near the door,
and said, with a smile:

"You are going?"

He looked at her. He saw in her eyes the look he had seen in them when
he had bade her good-bye at the Savoy after his useless embassy.

"You are going?"

"Yes," he said. "I am! Going to see your husband!"

And before she could speak or move, he was at the door through which
Hamza had passed; he had opened it and disappeared, shutting it s