llowing, the fiddler gazing stupidly after them. Suddenly he scrambled
up, moaning, as if the scourge itself had fastened on him, backed into
the house, and slammed the door in my face. I returned with slow
steps to shut myself in the darkened room again, and I recall feeling
something of triumph over the consternation I had caused. No sounds came
from the bedroom, and after that the street was quiet as death save for
an occasional frightened, hurrying footfall. I was tired.

All at once the bedroom door opened softly, and Helene was standing
there, looking at me. At first I saw her dimly, as in a vision, then
clearly. I leaped to my feet and went and stood beside her.

"The doctor has not come," I said. "Where does he live? I will go for
him."

She shook her head.

"He can do no good. Lindy has procured all the remedies, such as they
are. They can only serve to alleviate," she answered. "She cannot
withstand this, poor lady." There were tears on Helene's lashes. "Her
sufferings have been frightful--frightful."

"Cannot I help?" I said thickly. "Cannot I do something?"

She shook her head. She raised her hand timidly to the lapel of my coat,
and suddenly I felt her palm, cool and firm, upon my forehead. It rested
there but an instant.

"You ought not to be here," she said, her voice vibrant with earnestness
and concern. "You ought not to be here. Will you not go--if I ask it?"

"I cannot," I said; "you know I cannot if you stay."

She did not answer that. Our eyes met, and in that instant for me there
was neither joy nor sorrow, sickness nor death, nor time nor space nor
universe. It was she who turned away.

"Have you written him?" she asked in a low voice.

"Yes," I answered.

"She would not have known him," said Helene; "after all these years of
waiting she would not have known him. Her punishment has been great."

A sound came from the bedroom, and Helene was gone, silently, as she had
come.

* * * * * * *

I must have been dozing in the fauteuil, for suddenly I found myself
sitting up, listening to an unwonted noise. I knew from the count of the
hoof-beats which came from down the street that a horse was galloping in
long strides--a spent horse, for the timing was irregular. Then he was
pulled up into a trot, then to a walk as I ran to the door and opened
it and beheld Nicholas Temple flinging himself from a pony white with
lather. And he was alone! He caught sight of me as soon as his fo