seen her," she said, still simply.

I could think of no word suited to that moment. I stood only looking at
her. She would have spoken, but on the instant raised a hand as though
to demand my silence. I heard a loud knock at the door, peremptory,
commanding, as though the owner came.

"You must go into another room," said Helena von Ritz to me hurriedly.

"Who is it? Who is it at the door?" I asked.

She looked at me calmly. "It is Sir Richard Pakenham," said she. "This
is his usual hour. I will send him away. Go now--quick!"

I rapidly passed behind the screening curtains into the hall, even as I
heard a heavy foot stumbling at the threshold and a somewhat husky voice
offer some sort of salutation.

CHAPTER XXXII

PAKENHAM'S PRICE

The happiest women, like nations, have no history.
--_George Eliot_.

The apartment into which I hurriedly stepped I found to be a long and
narrow hall, heavily draped. A door or so made off on the right-hand
side, and a closed door also appeared at the farther end; but none
invited me to enter, and I did not care to intrude. This situation did
not please me, because I must perforce hear all that went on in the
rooms which I had just left. I heard the thick voice of a man,
apparently none the better for wine.

"My dear," it began, "I--" Some gesture must have warned him.

"God bless my soul!" he began again. "Who is here, then? What is wrong?"

"My father is here to-day," I heard her clear voice answer, "and, as you
suggest, it might perhaps be better--"

"God bless my soul!" he repeated. "But, my dear, then I must go!
_To-night_, then! Where is that other key? It would never do, you
know--"

"No, Sir Richard, it would never do. Go, then!" spoke a low and icy
voice, hers, yet not hers. "Hasten!" I heard her half whisper. "I think
perhaps my father--"

But it was my own footsteps they heard. This was something to which I
could not be party. Yet, rapidly as I walked, her visitor was before me.
I caught sight only of his portly back, as the street door closed behind
him. She stood, her back against the door, her hand spread out against
the wall, as though to keep me from passing.

I paused and looked at her, held by the horror in her eyes. She made no
concealment, offered no apologies, and showed no shame. I repeat that it
was only horror and sadness mingled which I saw upon her face.

"Madam," I began. And again, "Madam!" a