thly. After three years I ran
away--oh, not with any one I cared for; he happened to be there, that
was all. After a month he deserted me in Italy. I have fortunately some
money of my own and a few friends who did not turn me down--Lady Splay,
for instance. There!"

She moved to a table and poured out for Hillyard a whisky-and-soda.

"My question was thoughtless," he said. "I did not mean that you should
answer it as you did."

"I preferred you to know."

"I am honoured," Hillyard replied.

Stella Croyle sat down upon a low stool in front of the fire. Hillyard
sank into one of the deep-cushioned chairs. The day of tension was over,
and there was no doubt about the success of "The Dark Tower." Stella
Croyle sat very quietly, with the firelight playing upon her face and
her delicate dress. Her vivacity had dropped from her like the pretty
cloak she had thrown aside. Both became her well, but they were for use
out-of-doors, and Hillyard was grateful that she had discarded them.

"You are tired, no doubt," he said, reluctantly. "I ought to go."

"No," she answered. "It is pleasant before the fire here."

"Thank you. I should like to stay for a little while. I did not know
until I came into this room with how much anxiety I had been looking
forward to this night."

He leaned forward with his hands clenched, and saw pass in the bright
coals glimpses of the long tale of days when endeavour was fruitless and
hopes were disappointed. "Success! Lord, how I wanted it!" he whispered.

Stella Croyle looked at him with a smile.

"It was sure to come to you, since you wanted it enough," she said.

"Yes, but in time?" exclaimed Hillyard.

"In time for what?"

Hillyard broke into a laugh.

"I don't know," he answered. He was silent for a little while, and the
comfort of the room, the quiet of the night, the pleasant sympathy of
Stella Croyle, all wrought upon him. "I don't know," he repeated slowly.
"I am waiting. But out of my queer life something more has got to
come--something more and something different. I have always been sure of
it, but I used to be afraid that the opportunity would come while I was
still chained to the handles of the barrow."

Hillyard's life, though within a short time its vicissitudes had been
many and most divergent, had probably not been as strange as he imagined
it to be. He looked back upon it with too intense an interest to be its
impartial judge. Certainly its distinctive feature had e