a certain stimulating effect upon him;
morally, too, he did not lack courage; though good-naturedly inclined to
have everything as pleasant as possible, he was not in the least afraid
to make himself disagreeable. But now, at the thought of what Miss
Falkener was going to say to him, he was frankly and unmistakably
terrified. Why, he asked himself? Young and timid girls could go through
such scenes and, it was said, actually enjoy them. Why should he be
unreasoningly terrified--terrified with the same instinctive desire to
run away that some people feel when they see snakes or spiders? Why
should he feel as if prison walls were closing about him?

"Two years ago, when you and I first began to see each other," Miss
Falkener went on, in a voice that she kept dropping lower and lower in
order to conceal its tremors, "I liked you at once, Burton. I liked you
very much. But, aside from that--you know, I'm not always very happy
with my mother, aside from liking you, I made up my mind in the most
cold-blooded, mercenary way, that the best thing I could do was to
marry you."

"Well, I call that a thoroughly kind thought," said Crane, smiling at
her, as a martyr might make a little joke about the lions.

"It wasn't kind," said Cora. "It was just selfish. I supposed I would be
able to make you happy, but really, I thought very little about you in
the matter. I was thinking only of myself. But I've been well repaid for
it--" She stopped, almost with a sob; and while she was silently
struggling for sufficient self-control to continue, Crane became aware
that the front door had opened, letting a sudden shaft of yellow light
fall upon them through the green moonshine, and that Tucker had come out
on the piazza. He was looking about; he was looking for them. Not a
sound did Burton make, but if concentration of thought has any unseen
power, he drew Tucker's gaze to them.

"Burton," said Tucker.

There was no answer.

"Burton!" he called again.

Miss Falkener raised her head.

"Some one called you," she said.

Then Crane's figure became less rigid, and he moved a step forward. He
was saved for the time, at least.

"Want me, Tuck?" he said.

Solon came down the steps carefully. He had reached an age when the eye
does not quickly adjust itself to changes of light.

"Yes," he said, "I do want to see you. I want to ask you one question.
Did you or did you not assure me the boy Brindlebury had left the
house?"

"I did so a