St. Francis of Assisi, St. Ignatius Loyola's "Spiritual
Exercises," Pascal's "Letters," etc., etc. Over the windows hung
gray-blue curtains.

Into this room Rosamund came that evening; she went to a wardrobe and
began to take down a long sealskin coat. Just then her maid appeared--an
Italian girl whom she had taken into her service in Milan when she had
studied singing there.

"Shan't I come with you, Signorina?" she asked, as she took the jacket
from her mistress and held it for Rosamund to put on.

"No, thank you, Maria. I'm going to church, the Protestant church."

"I could wait outside or come back to fetch you."

"It's not far. I shall be all right."

"But the fog is terrible. It's like a wall about the house."

"Is it as bad as that?"

She went to one of the windows, pulled aside the curtains, lifted the
blind and tried to look out. But she could not, for the fog pressed
against the window panes and hid the street and the houses opposite.

"It is bad."

She dropped the blind, let the curtains fall into place and turned
round.

"But I'd rather go alone. I can't miss the way, and I'm not a nervous
person. You'd be far more frightened than I." She smiled at the girl.

Apparently reassured, or perhaps merely glad that her unselfishness was
not going to be tested, Maria accompanied her mistress downstairs and
let her out. It was Lurby's "evening off," and for once he was not
discreetly on hand.

Church bells were chiming faintly in this City of dreadful night as
Rosamund almost felt her way onward. She heard them and thought they
were sad, and their melancholy seemed to be one with the melancholy of
the atmosphere. Some one passed by her. She just heard a muffled sound
of steps, just discerned a shadow--that was all.

To-morrow she must give an answer to Dion Leith. She went on slowly in
the fog, thinking, thinking. Two vertical lines showed in her usually
smooth forehead.

It was nearly half-past six when she turned into Welby Street. The
church was not a large one and there was no parish attached to it. It
was a proprietary chapel. The income of the incumbent came from pew
rents. His name was Limer, and he was a first-rate preacher of the
sensational type, a pulpit dealer in "actualities." He was also an
excellent musician, and took great pains with his choir. In consequence
of these talents, and of his diligent application of them, St. Mary's
was generally full, and all its pews were let at a high