ned her that, once roused, he was a dangerous man to trifle
with. There is not an immeasurable distance between the mystic and the
madman. The pressure of his fingers on her shoulders warned her of his
strength; his thumb was like a turnscrew.

"Who did you pay?" he asked. "Tell me, or you will regret it." His
grasp became an agony.

"Mohammed Ali," Millicent murmured. "He showed me Margaret's diary."

Michael groaned. "You little beast!" he cried. "You mean little
beast!"

Millicent burst into a flood of weeping. She knew that it was her only
chance, a woman's deadliest weapon with such a man. "I loved you so!
Oh, Mike, I loved you so! Can't you understand? Is there no humanity
in you? Is your nature so devoid of passion, of human love, that you
can't understand the mad heights and the depths it can lead you to? I
have never been given the chance of rising to the heights."

Mike heard her sobs. He saw her beautiful body convulsed with anguish.
The real woman was there at his feet, a weak creature, whose love for
himself had driven her to do these deeds he despised. He felt that he
was in a manner to blame; for him she had sunk to this degradation.

"I am so ashamed, Mike, but for days my shame has been drowned in
anger. I followed you and trapped you and spied upon you." She looked
up pleadingly. "And I'd do it all over again, even worse, Mike, I know
I would, even though I am despicable in my own eyes."

"Don't!" he said. "It has become a madness with you, an obsession."

"Love is a madness," she said. "It is an obsession. It is devouring
me. No one can judge of its power until they have felt it."

He sat down beside her. "Millicent," he said gently, "have you ever
thought of praying, of asking for help?" He paused. "You poor, poor
soul, have you ever in your life tried to reach your higher self, to
get away from all this?"

"No, never." The words came frankly. "First let me enjoy this human
love, Michael." Her eyes pleaded. "Then I may try to be as you are,
but not till then."

"It would be no enjoyment," he said. "Only a hideous mockery, a wilful
lowering of your better self."

"Not of my better self, Mike--not really. I might rise to higher
things afterwards, with that one beautiful memory to help me, an Eden
in the desert." Her voice was humble; her eyes swam with tears--a
beautiful Magdalen.

"Poor little soul!" he said. "Poor little Millicent!"

"Yes, Mike, poor