found a carriage, and got into it beside her, and sat in silence
while they drove through the throng of the streets. He saw, through
the window, the brisk tides of the pavement, the lights and the
cafes; they seemed remote from him, inaccessible. Inside the
carriage, he could hear the steady, full breathing of the woman at
his side.

"You will at least allow me to go first," he said, as they drew up at
last. He was prepared to carry this point if he had to lock her out
of the house. But she made no demur.

"As you will," she murmured.

He found her a place to wait, an alcove on the stairs. As he guided
her to it, a touch on the arm showed him she was trembling.

"I will be a very little while," he promised, and ran up the stairs.

It was Buscarlet who opened the door to him, with Truelove standing
behind his shoulder.

"Welcome, welcome!" babbled Buscarlet. "Oh, but we have been eager
for you! Tell me, will she--will she come?"

"She is waiting on the stairs, in the alcove," answered O'Neill.

Buscarlet's mild eyes opened in amaze. "You have brought her with
you?" he cried.

O'Neill nodded.

"Thank God!" ejaculated Truelove.

"How is he?" asked O'Neill. "Still--er--living, eh?"

It was Truelove that replied. "Still keeping on, sir," he answered.
"But changed, as you might say. Softened would be the word, sir."

"What d'ye mean?" demanded O'Neill.

"Well, sir," said the ex-corporal of dragoons, with a touch of
hesitation, "it isn't for me to judge, but I should say he's--he's
got religion. Or a taste of it, anyway."

O'Neill stared at the pair of them in open dismay. "Let me see him,"
he said shortly, and they followed him through the little anteroom to
the great studio.

Behind the screen, the narrow bed was white, and on it Regnault lay
in stillness, looking up.

He started slightly as O'Neill appeared at the foot of his bed, and
the faint flush rose in his face. "Hush!" he said, with a forefinger
uplifted, and poised for a few seconds on the brink of a spasm.

"Ah!" he said when he was safe. "That was a near thing, O'Neill. I am
glad to see you back, my friend."

He was tranquil; even that undertone of mockery, so familiar in his
voice, was gone. A rosary sprawled on his breast; O'Neill recognized
it for a splendid piece of Renaissance work that had lain about the
room for months.

"I have found my happiness in meditation," Regnault was saying, in a
still, silken voice. "But tell me, O'Neil