hey felt, of fear. It
stirred them to question and to wonder. Without apparent cause or reason,
they each oddly connected the troubled tone in the music with the stopping
of the automobile from Fairlands Heights, that afternoon, at the gate of
the little house next door--the artist, because of Mrs. Taine's insistent
inquiry about the, to him, unknown musician;--Conrad Lagrange, because of
the manner of the girl in the garden when James Rutlidge appeared and
because of the critic's interest when they had spoken of the violinist in
the studio. But neither expressed his thought to the other.

Presently, the music ceased, and they sat for an hour, perhaps, in
silence--as close friends may do--exchanging only now and then a word.

Suddenly, they were startled by a cry. In the still darkness of the night,
from the mysterious depths of the orange grove, the sound came with such a
shock that the two men, for the moment, held their places,
motionless--questioning each other sharply--"What was that?" "Did you
hear?"--as though they doubted, almost, their own ears.

The cry came again; this time, undoubtedly, from that neighboring house to
the west. It was unmistakably the cry of a woman--a woman in fear and
pain.

They leaped to their feet.

Again the cry came from the black depths of the orange grove--shuddering,
horrible--in an agony of fear.

The two men sprang from the porch, and, through the darkness that in the
orange grove was like a black wall, ran toward the spot from which the
sound came--the dog at their heels.

Breathless, they broke into the little yard in front of the tiny box-like
house. Lights shone in the windows. All seemed peaceful and still. Czar
betrayed no uneasiness. Going to the front door, they knocked.

There was no answer save the sound of some one moving inside.

Again, the artist knocked vigorously.

The door opened, and a woman stood on the threshold.

Standing a little to one side, the men saw her features clearly, in the
light from the room. It was the woman with the disfigured face.

Conrad Lagrange was first to command himself. "I beg your pardon, madam.
We live in the house next door. We thought we heard a cry of distress. May
we offer our assistance in any way? Is there anything we can do?"

"Thank you, sir, you are very kind,"--returned the woman, in a low
voice,--"but it is nothing. There is nothing you can do."

And the voice of Sibyl Andres, who stood farther back in the room