en hair shimmering over the whiteness of her gown, glided softly
across the atrium.

A tiny vestibule led into the studio, she crossed it, guided by her
knowledge of the place, for the light in the atrium did not penetrate to
this recess. Her bare feet made no noise as she glided along the floor,
her hand pushed the door open without raising a sound.

Now she was in the studio. The place in which she did the work that she
loved, the place in which day after day she loved to sit and to idle
away the hours. In an angle of the room, stretched out upon the bare
floor, Dion and Nolus were lying, their even breathing showing that they
slept. On the right was another door, which led to an inner chamber,
where she oft used to retire for rest from her work. It was a private
sanctum which none dared enter save with special permission from
herself. Blanca kept it swept and free from dust, and Licinia tidied it
only when she was so allowed.

Dea Flavia went across the studio and pushed open the door. It was
masked by a curtain, and this too she pulled aside, slowly and nervously
like some small animal that is timid and yet venturesome. She knew every
corner of the place of course, and the very creaking of the hinges and
gentle swish of the curtain was a familiar sound to her ear.

Nevertheless she was almost frightened to advance, for the big dark
shadow right across the stuccoed wall awed her by its mysterious
blackness. It was caused by a large object in the centre of the room, a
couch covered with coverlets of soft, white woollen stuffs, on which the
night-light burning fitfully threw patches of ruddy lights.

Dea Flavia had paused on the threshold, with one hand behind her still
clinging to the curtain, the other pressed hard on her bosom, trying to
still the wild beatings which went on hammering inside her just below
her breasts. She thought that she either must be dreaming now, or being
awake, must have been dreaming before.

Once or twice she closed and then reopened her eyes, thinking that
perhaps the flickering night-light was playing her drowsy senses some
elusive trick. For surely Blanca had told her that Dion and Nolus had
laid the praefect of Rome on an improvised couch in the chamber beside
the studio, and that the praefect was helpless and weak with pain and
loss of blood.

The improvised couch was certainly in its place, the light of the lamp
danced upon pillow and coverlet, but no one was lying there, even t