might reach
her heart. Something intense told him that he must try to make her
understand how he had loved her, through all his hideous attempts to
slay his love of her. Could a woman understand such a thing? Desperately
he wondered. Might not his terrible sincerity perhaps overwhelm her
doubts?

He left the window, sat down again at the table, and wrote quickly.

"I have your letter. Will you meet me to-morrow at Eyub, in the cemetery
on the hill? I will be near the Tekkeh of the dancing Dervishes. I will
be there before noon, and will wait all day.

"DION"

When he began to write he knew that he could not make his confession to
Rosamund within the four walls of his sordid and dingy room. Her power
to understand would surely be taken from her there. Might it not be
released under the sky of morning, within sight of those minarets which
he had sometimes feared, but which he had always secretly, in some
obscure way, loved even in the most abominable moments of his abominable
life, as he had always secretly, beneath all the hard bitterness of his
stricken heart, loved Rosamund? From them came the voice which would not
be gainsaid, the voice which whispered, "In the East thou shalt find me
if thou hast not found me in the West." Might not that voice help him
when he spoke to Rosamund, help her to understand him, help her perhaps
even to----

But there he stopped. He dared not contemplate the possibility of her
being able to accept the man he had become as her companion. And yet now
he felt himself somehow closely akin to the former Dion, flesh of that
man's flesh, bone of his bone. It was as if his sin fell from him when
he so utterly repented of it.

Slowly he put the note he had written into an envelope, sealed it and
wrote the address--"Mrs. Dion Leith, Hotel de Byzance." He blotted it.
Then he fetched his hat and stick. He meant to take the note himself to
the Hotel de Byzance. The night might be made for sleep, but he knew he
could not sleep till he had seen Rosamund. When he was out in the air,
and was walking uphill towards Pera, he realized that within him, in
spite of all, something of hope still lingered. Rosamund's letter to
him had wrought already a wonderful change in his tortured life. The
knowledge that he would see her again, be with her alone, even if only
for an hour, even if only that he might tell her what would alienate
her from him forever, thrilled through him, seemed even to shed a fierc