nerve in him drawn to the point that demanded the reaction
of physical exertion. He knew that he could not sleep. The night would
be one long and tedious wait for the dawn. And Jean had told him not to
sleep as long as Josephine was awake!

Was he to take that literally? Did Jean mean that he was to watch her?
He wondered if she was in bed now. At least the half-breed's admonition
offered him an excuse. He would go to her room. If there was a light he
would knock, and ask her if she would join him in the piano-room. He
looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. Probably she had retired.

He opened his door and entered the hall. Quietly he went to the end
room. There was no light--and he heard no sound. He was standing close
to it, concealed in the shadows, when his heart gave a sudden jump.
Advancing toward him down the hall was a figure clad in a flowing white
night-robe.

At first he did not know whether it was Josephine or Miriam. And then,
as she came under one of the low-burning lamps, he saw that it was
Miriam. She had turned, and was looking back toward the room where she
had left her husband. Her beautiful hair was loose, and fell in
lustrous masses to her hips. She was listening. And in that moment
Philip heard a low, passionate sob. She turned her face toward him
again, and he could see it drawn with agony. In the lamp-glow her hands
were clasped at her partly bared breast. She was barefoot, and made no
sound as she advanced. Philip drew himself back closer against the
wall. He was sure she had not seen him. A moment later Miriam turned
into the corridor that led into Adare's big room.

Philip felt that he was trembling. In Miriam's face he had seen
something that had made his heart beat faster. Quietly he went to the
corridor, turned, and made his way cautiously to the door of Adare's
room. It was dark inside, the corridor was black. Hidden in the gloom
he listened. He heard Miriam sink in one of the big chairs, and from
her movement, and the sound of her sobbing, he knew that she had buried
her head in her arms on the table. He listened for minutes to the grief
that seemed racking her soul. Then there was silence. A moment later he
heard her, and she was so close to the door that he dared not move. She
passed him, and turned into the main hall. He followed again.

She paused only for an instant at the door of the room in which she and
her husband slept. Then she passed on, and scarcely believing his e