shall stay in town for the night."

Mark locked up the manuscript in a drawer of his writing table, the key
of which he carried about him on a chain. And the two men took their
departure, leaving Catherine alone.

So the time of her duty was fully come. She had waited till now,
because, till now, she had not been absolutely sure that she was to be
the agent through whom Fate was to work. But she could no longer dare to
doubt. The book was finished. Mark had been allowed to finish it. But
its deadly work was not accomplished till it was given to the world. It
must never be given to the world.

The day was not cold. Yet Catherine ordered the footman to light a fire
in Mark's study. When he had done so she told him not to allow her to be
disturbed. Then she went into the room and shut the door behind her. She
walked up to the writing table, at which Mark had spent so many hours,
labouring, thinking, imagining, working out, fashioning that shell which
was to burst and maim a world. The silence in the room seemed curiously
intense. The fire gleamed, and the sun gleamed too; though already it
was slanting to the West. Catherine stood for some time by the table.
Then she tried the drawer in which Mark kept his manuscript and found it
locked. The resistance of the drawer to her hand roused her.

Two or three minutes later one of the maids in the servant's hall said,

"Whatever's that?"

"What?" said the footman who had lit the study fire.

"Listen!" said the maid.

They listened and heard a sound like a blow struck on some hard
substance.

"There it is again," said the maid. "What ever can it be?"

The footman didn't know, but they both agreed that the noise seemed to
come from the study. While they were still gossiping about it Catherine
stood at Mark's writing table, and drew out from an open drawer the
manuscript of the book. She lifted it in her hands slowly and her face
was hard and set. Then she turned and carried it to the hearth, where
the fire was blazing. By the hearth she paused. She meant to destroy the
book in the fire. But now that she saw the book, now that she held it in
her hands, the deed seemed so horribly merciless that she hesitated.
Then she knelt down on the hearth and leaned towards the flames. Their
light played upon her face, their heat scorched her skin. She held the
book towards them, over them. The flames flew up towards it eagerly,
seeming to desire it. Catherine tantalised them by withh