tiful in a woman, and the
thought came now. Had Josephine, for some tremendous reason known only
to herself and Jean, tried to destroy his great love for her by
revealing herself in a light that was untrue?

Instantly he told himself that this could not be so. If he believed in
Josephine at all, he must believe that she had told him the truth. And
he did believe, in spite of the whispering doubt. He felt that he could
not sleep until he had seen Josephine alone. In her room John Adare had
interrupted them a minute too soon. In spite of the mysterious and
unsettling events of the night his heart still beat with the wild and
joyous hope that had come with Josephine's surrender to his arms and
lips.

Instead of accepting the confession of her misfortune as the final
barrier between them, he had taken it as the key that had unlocked the
chains of her bondage. If she had told him the truth--if this were what
separated them--she belonged to him; and he wanted to tell her this
again before he slept, and hear from her lips the words that would give
her to him forever.

Despairing of this, he opened the door to his room.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Scarcely had he crossed the threshold when an exclamation of surprise
rose to Philip's lips. A few minutes before he had left his room even
uncomfortably warm. A cold draught of air struck his face now, and the
light was out. He remembered that he had left the lamp burning. He
groped his way through the darkness to the table before he lighted a
match.

As he touched the flame to the wick he glanced toward the window. It
was open. A film of snow had driven through and settled upon the rug
under it. Replacing the chimney, he took a step or two toward the
window. Then he stopped, and stared at the floor. Some one had entered
his room through the open window and had gone to the door opening into
the hall. At each step had fallen a bit of snow, and close to the door
was a space of the bare floor soppy and stained. At that point the
intruder had stood for some moments without moving.

For several seconds Philip stared at the evidences of a prowling
visitor without making a move himself. It was not without a certain
thrill of uneasiness that he went to the window and closed it. It did
not take him long to assure himself that nothing in the room had been
touched. He could find no other marks of feet except those which led
directly from the window to the door, and this fact was sufficien