these two. She was
acting purely on the prompting of an instinct long proved by life. There
was within her no mental debate. She did not know how long she had stood
alone. She did not ask herself whether Meyer Isaacson had had time to
say anything, or, if he had had time, what it was likely that he had
said. She just came in with this soft rush, went to her husband, sat
down touching him, put her hand on his shoulder, with the fingers upon
his neck, and said:

"What do you think of my surprise? I dared it! Was I wrong? Has it done
you any harm, Nigel?"

As she spoke she looked at the face of Isaacson and she knew that he had
not spoken. A natural flush came to join the flush of rouge on her
cheeks.

"Nigel, you've got to forgive me!" she said.

"Forgive you!"

The weak voice spoke with a stronger note than it had found on the
balcony. Isaacson let go his friend's hands. He moved. The almost
emotional protectiveness that had seemed mutely to exclaim, "I'll save
you! Here's a hand--here are two strong hands--to save you from the
abyss!" died out of his attitude. He stood up straight. But he kept his
eyes fastened on his friend. Never in his consulting-room had he looked
at any patient as he now looked at Nigel Armine, with such fiercely
searching eyes. His face said to the leaning man before him: "Give up
your secrets. I mean to know them all."

"Forgive you!" Nigel repeated.

Feebly he put out one hand and touched his wife. He was looking almost
dazed.

"And to-night, when I--when I said, 'If only Isaacson were here!' did
you know then?"

"That he was coming? Yes, I knew. And I nearly had to tell you--so
nearly! But, you see, a woman can keep a secret."

"How did you know?"

He looked at Isaacson. But Isaacson let her answer. It was enough for
him that he was with his friend. He did not care about anything else.
And all this time he was at doctor's work.

"We met this morning in the temple of Edfou, and I told Doctor Isaacson
about your sunstroke, and asked him to come up to-night and see you."

She lied with the quiet aplomb which Isaacson remembered almost enjoying
in the Savoy Restaurant one night, when they were grouped about a
supper-table. Quietly then she had handed him out the lies which he knew
to be lies. She had made him presents of them, and as he had received
her presents then, he received them now, but a little more
indifferently. For he was deeply attentive to Nigel.

That colour, that