le about his home, his father, but he had a strange,
overwhelming conviction that she already knew. He felt, also, that she
regarded these things that he told her as preliminaries to something
else that he would presently say. He paused.

"Yes?" she said.

"I am tiring you. I have talked enough. It is time for me to be back in
College."

She did not contradict him. She watched him as he said good-bye. For
one moment he touched her chill, unresponsive hand, for an instant their
eyes, dark, sombre, met. The thought flew to his brain, "My God, how
lonely she is . . ." and then, "My God, how lonely I am." Slowly and
quietly he closed the door behind him.

2

That night the Shadow was nearer, more insistent; the closer it came
the more completely was the real world obscured. This obscurity was now
shutting oil from him everything; it was exactly as though his whole
body bad been struck numb so that he might touch, might hold, but
could feel nothing. Again it was as though he were confined in a damp,
underground cell and the world above his head was crying out with life
and joy. In his hand was the key of the door; he had only to use it.

Submission--to be taken into those arms, to be told gently what he
must do, and then--Obedience--perhaps public confession, perhaps death,
struggling, ignominious death . . . at least, never again Margaret
Craven, never again her companionship, her understanding, never again
to help her and to feel that warm sure clasp of her hand. What would she
say, what would she do if she were told? That remained for him now the
one abiding question. But he could not doubt what she would do. He saw
the warmth fading from the eyes, the hard stern lines settling about the
mouth, the cold stiffening of her whole body. No, she must never know,
and if Rupert discovered the truth, he, Olva, must force him, for his
sister's sake, to keep silence. But if Rupert knew he would tell his
sister, and she would believe him. No use denials then.

And on the side of it all was the Shadow, with him now, with him in the
room.

All things betray Thee Who betrayest Me.

The line from some poem came to him. It was true, true. His life that
had been the life of a man was now the life of a Liar--Liar to his
friends, Liar to Margaret, Liar to all the world--so his shuddering
soul cowered there, naked, creeping into the uttermost corner to escape
the Presence.

If only for an hour he might be again himse