een me and the door, thus
effectively barring my exit. I could only confront her uneasily,
trying to avoid her direct gaze and, as I did so, I could not help
remarking that she, too, was obviously embarrassed.

Then, as if taking a resolution, she came up to me and looked me
squarely in the face. I moved away, a faint shiver of apprehension
going down my spine.

'Mr. Rawlings,' she said slowly and impressively, 'there is one thing I
want to say regarding your conduct. When you are addressing
photographs, may I ask you to do it with lowered voice, or at all
events in a purely conversational tone?' Then she swept out of the
room, banging the door behind her.

As for me, I was left dazed and struggling to grasp the strange import
of her mystic words. Why this constant reference to the photograph she
had so shamelessly thrust upon me, and which, as a direct hint to her
that I did not desire it, I had replaced in its frame at the first
opportunity?

What had come over the woman? I began to be more than ever convinced
of my former suspicion that her fatal and erratic passion for myself
was beginning to unhinge her mind. I saw that I must lose no time in
bringing about her disillusionment.

CHAPTER XIII

'Henry, do you think William has been looking particularly unhappy
lately?' I inquired.

Henry grunted. Converted for the moment into 'A Well-known Actor,' he
was digging amongst his theatrical cuttings for reminiscent purposes,
and was, therefore, somewhat abstracted.

I, too, was supposed to be working, but try as I would I could not help
thinking of William. I felt sorry for him--he looked so distrait.
When, as he vaguely hinted, he had conceived an attachment for me I did
not think it was likely to cause him any unhappiness. Indeed, I never
imagined him capable of feeling any emotions but those of a purely
physical character--such as the effects of cold, heat, hunger or bodily
pain. And here he was, sighing and looking so dejected it was
depressing even to see him about the place. I had just been re-reading
_Cyrano de Bergerac_, whose case seemed rather applicable to William.
Could it be possible that under his rough exterior the poor fellow had
all the sentiment and fiery imagination of Cyrano, and suffered the
same sensitive torment about his appearance. Did William, like Cyrano,
shudder when his eye rested even on his own shadow? Did he feel that
because of his physical failings the love o