u are in London," she said, her lip quivering, her eyes falling
before his. "I have your own word for it that you are still in London."
And she pointed at his letter. "I was not expecting to see you."

A joy so great that it was akin to pain laid its awakening hand on him.

"I am glad you were not expecting me," he said, in a voice that he
hardly recognised as his own. "I'm thankful."

And he drew her back into his arms more moved than he had ever been.

Yes. He was loved. He loved and was loved. He had not known the world
contained anything as great as this. He had always thought that life at
its best was a solitary thing, that passion was a momentary madness with
which he did not care to tamper, that celibacy was a cheap price to pay
for his independence. But he and this woman were one. This was rest and
peace and joy and freedom. This was what he had always wanted, without
knowing he wanted it. One of the many barriers between them went down.
He thought it was the only one.

They sat a long time in silence, his head against her breast. Her face
had become pinched and sharp, the lovely colour had faded. All its
beauty and youth had gone out of it. Her terrified eyes stared at the
wall.

"Speak! Speak now," said the inner voice. "You were too late last time.
Speak now."

* * * * *

"I am very miserable, Fay," in a whisper against her cheek.

Her arms tightened round him.

"Not so miserable now I am with you, but----"

It seemed to Fay that she was holding to her breast the point of the
sword that was to stab her to death.

He raised his head, and she saw that there were tears in his eyes. Twice
she had seen tears in those narrow grey eyes before: once when he had
talked to her of Michael in prison, and once when Michael was
exonerated.

They had drawn a little apart.

"When I came here I had not meant to tell you anything about it, I had
decided not to, but--Fay, I can't believe it, I haven't slept all night,
I have known for two days, I only found it out by the merest accident
that that has happened which I never thought could happen, something
impossible." Wentworth's lip quivered. "Michael has deceived me, not by
mistake, not just for a moment, but systematically, purposely--for
years."

There was anger as well as pain in his voice.

"It was about the murder of the Marchese," he said hoarsely, "but I
don't care what it was about. That is not the point. He has deceiv