own at him.

The older man recognized him at once, but he did not change his
position by a muscle, merely lounged there, his head against the side
of the cushioned chair, the brilliant, surprised gaze changing slowly
to amused contempt. His cigarette hung between the long fingers of one
hand, its blue spiral of smoke rising tranquilly into a bar of
sunshine from the window.

"The doctor told me to come up," said Pierre gravely. He was aware of
the insult of this stranger's attitude, but he was too deeply stirred,
too deeply suspenseful, to be irritated by it. He seemed to be moving
in some rare, disconnected atmosphere. "I have his permission to
see--to see Miss West, if she is willing to see me."

Prosper flicked off an ash with his little finger. "And you believe
that she is willing to see you, Pierre Landis?" he asked slowly.

Pierre gave him a startled look. "You know my name?"

"Yes. I believe that four years ago, on an especially cold and snowy
night, I interrupted you in a rather extraordinary occupation and gave
myself the pleasure of shooting you." With that he got to his feet and
stood before the mantel, negligently enough, but ready to his
fingertips.

Pierre came nearer by a stride. He had been stripped at once of his
air of high detachment. He was pale and quivering. He looked at
Prosper with eyes of incredulous dread.

"Were you--that man?" A tide of shamed scarlet engulfed him and he
dropped his eyes.

"I thought that would take the assurance out of you," said Prosper.
"As a matter of fact, shooting was too good for you. On that night you
forfeited every claim to the consideration of man or woman. I have the
right of any decent citizen to turn you out of here. Do you still
maintain your intention of asking for an interview with Miss Jane
West?"

Pierre, half-blind with humiliation, turned without a word and made
his way to the door. He meant to go away and kill himself. The purpose
was like iron in his mind. That he should have to stand and, because
of his own cowardly fault, to endure insult from this contemptuous
stranger, made of life a garment too stained, too shameful to be worn.
He was in haste to be rid of it. Something, however, barred his exit.
He stumbled back to avoid it. There, holding aside the curtain in the
doorway, stood Joan.

This time there was no possible doubt of her identity. She was wrapped
in a long, blue gown, her hair had fallen in braided loops on either
side of he