yes
Philip saw her open the door that led out into the night!

She was full in the glow of the lamp that hung over the door now, and
Philip saw her plainly. A biting gust of wind flung back her hair. He
saw her bare arms; she turned, and he caught the white gleam of a naked
shoulder. Before he could speak--before he could call her name, she had
darted out into the night!

With a gasp of amazement he sprang after her. Her bare feet were deep
in the snow when he caught her. A frightened cry broke from her lips.
He picked her up in his arms as if she had been a child, and ran back
into the hall with her, closing the door after them. Panting, shivering
with the cold, she stared at him without speaking.

"Why were you going out there?" he whispered. "Why--like that?"

For a moment he was afraid that from her heaving bosom and quivering
lips would burst forth the strange excitement which she was fighting
back. Something told him that Adare must not discover them in the hall.
He caught her hands. They were cold as ice.

"Go to your room," he whispered gently. "You must not let him know you
were out there in the snow--like this. You--were partly asleep."

Purposely he gave her the chance to seize upon this explanation. The
sobbing breath came to her lips again.

"I guess--it must have been--that," she said, drawing her hands from
him. "I was going out--to--the baby. Thank you, Philip. I--I will go to
my room now."

She left him, and not until her door had closed behind her did he move.
Had she spoken the truth? Had she in those few moments been temporarily
irresponsible because of grieving over the baby's death? Some inner
consciousness answered him in the negative. It was not that. And
yet--what more could there be? He remembered. Jean's words, his
insistent warnings. Resolutely he moved toward Josephine's room, and
knocked softly upon her door. He was surprised at the promptness with
which her voice answered. When he spoke his name, and told her it was
important for him to see her, she opened the door. She had unbound her
hair. But she was still dressed, and Philip knew that she had been
sitting alone in the darkness of her room.

She looked at him strangely and expectantly. It seemed to Philip as if
she had been waiting for news which she dreaded, and which she feared
that he was bringing her.

"May I come in?" he whispered. "Or would you prefer to go into the
other room?"

"You may come in, Philip," she replie