type."

She held the paper so that Sloane bent forward, and, against his will,
was held to joint perusal while she read aloud. The curtain of
protecting noise thus was thickened.

"'That Mrs. Brace has knowledge of the following facts,'" the harsh,
colourless voice was reading.

Lucille began her escape. She moved with an agony of precaution, taking
steps only a few inches long, her arms held out from her sides to avoid
unnecessary rustling of her clothing. She went on the balls of her feet,
keeping the heels of her shoes always free of the floor, each step a
slow torture.

Her breathing stopped--a hysterical contraction of her chest prevented
breathing. Her face burned like fire. Her head felt crowded, as if the
blood tried to ooze through the confining scalp. There was a great
roaring in her ears. The pulse in her temples was like the blows of
sledges.

Once, midway of the distance, as she stood lightly balanced, with arms
outstretched, something went wrong with her equilibrium. She started
forward as she had often done when a child, with the sensation of
falling on her face. Her skirt billowed out in front of her. If she had
had any breath in her, she would have cried out.

But the automatisms of her body worked better than her overtaxed brain.
Her right foot went out easily and softly--she marvelled at that
independent motion of her leg--and, taking up the falling weight of her
body, restored her balance.

Mrs. Brace's voice had not faltered, although she must have seen the
misstep. Arthur Sloane's bowed shoulders had not stirred. Mrs. Brace
continued the printed enumeration of her stores of knowledge.

Lucille took another step. She was safe!--almost. There remained but a
yard of her painful progress. One more step, she comforted herself,
would put her on the threshold of the entry door, and from there to the
corridor door, shielded by the entry wall from possible observation by
her father, would be an easy business.

She completed that last step. On the threshold, she had to turn her body
through an arc of ninety degrees, unless she backed out of the door.
This she was afraid to do; her heel might meet an obstruction; a raised
plank of the flooring, even, would mean an alarming noise.

She began to turn. The reading continued. The whole journey from door to
door, in spite of the anguished care of every step, had consumed
scarcely a minute. She was turning, the balancing arms outstretched.
Deep down in