hey were, that he gave an inarticulate cry of alarm and despair. Was
he trapped, and by whom?

In a moment he saw whence the voice came. It was only Alice Darling,
in bonnet and cloak, and with a face flushed with something more than
anger, that stood before him.

Not much used to shame, he was yet ashamed of his own alarm, and tried
to dissemble it. He sat down at a writing-table facing her, and merely
observed:

"Now that you have returned, Alice, will you kindly bring lights? I want
to read."

"What were you doing up-stairs just now?" she snarled. "Why did you send
me off to the doctor's, out of the way?"

"My good girl, I have again and again advised you to turn that
invaluable curiosity of yours--curiosity, a quality which Mr. Matthew
Arnold so justly views with high esteem--into wider and nobler channels.
Disdain the merely personal; accept the calm facts of domestic life
as you find them; approach the broader and less irritating problems of
Sociology (pardon the term) or Metaphysics."

It was cruel to see the enjoyment he got out of teasing this woman by an
ironical jargon which mystified her into madness. This time he went too
far. With an inarticulate snarl of passion she lifted a knife that
lay on the dining-room table and made for him. But this time, being
prepared, he was not alarmed; nay, he seemed to take leasure in the
success of his plan of tormenting. The heavy escritoire at which he sat
was a breastwork between him and the angry woman. He coolly opened a
drawer; produced a revolver, and remarked:

"No; I did not ask for the carving-knife, Alice. I asked for lights; and
you will be good enough to bring them. I am your master, you know, in
every sense of the word; and you are aware that you had better both hold
your tongue and keep your hands off me--and off drink. Fetch the lamp!"

She left the room cowed, like a beaten dog. She returned, set the lamp
silently on the table, and was gone. Then he noticed a letter, which lay
on the escritoire, and was addressed to him. It was a rather peculiar
letter to look at, or rather the envelope was peculiar; for, though
bordered with heavy black, it was stamped, where the seal should have
been, with a strange device in gold and colors--a brown bun, in a glory
of gilt rays.

"Mrs. St John Deloraine," he said, taking it up. "How in the world did
_she_ find me out? Well, she is indeed a friend that sticketh closer
than a brother--a deal closer than Surbiton