t. She stood in the
path of a long gleam of morning sunlight. The wrinkles in her face, her
hard mouth, her cold, steely eyes were all clearly revealed.

"I am not at all sure," he said, with a purpose in the words, "that
any further meeting between Lady Dominey and myself is at present
desirable."

If he had thought to disturb this messenger by his suggestion, he was
disappointed.

"Her ladyship desires me to assure you," she added, with a note of
contempt in her tone, "that you need be under no apprehension."

Dominey admitted defeat and poured himself out some more coffee. Neither
of the two noticed that his fingers were trembling.

"Her ladyship is very considerate," he said. "Kindly say that I shall
follow you in a few minutes."

Dominey, following within a very few minutes of his summons, was ushered
into an apartment large and sombrely elegant, an apartment of faded
white and gold walls, of chandeliers glittering with lustres, of Louise
Quinze furniture, shabby but priceless. To his surprise, although he
scarcely noticed it at the time, Mrs. Unthank promptly disappeared. He
was from the first left alone with the woman whom he had come to visit.

She was sitting up on her couch and watching his approach. A woman?
Surely only a child, with pale cheeks, large, anxious eyes, and masses
of brown hair brushed back from her forehead. After all, was he indeed
a strong man, vowed to great things? There was a queer feeling in
his throat, almost a mist before his eyes. She seemed so fragile, so
utterly, sweetly pathetic. And all the time there was the strange light,
or was it want of light, in those haunting eyes. His speech of greeting
was never spoken.

"So you have come to see me, Everard," she said, in a broken tone. "You
are very brave."

He possessed himself of her hand, the hand which a few hours ago had
held a dagger to his throat, and kissed the waxenlike fingers. It fell
to her side like a lifeless thing. Then she raised it and began rubbing
softly at the place where his lips had fallen.

"I have come to see you at your bidding," he replied, "and for my
pleasure."

"Pleasure!" she murmured, with a ghastly little smile. "You have learnt
to control your words, Everard. You have slept here and you live. I have
broken my word. I wonder why?"

"Because," he pleaded, "I have not deserved that you should seek my
life."

"That sounds strangely," she reflected. "Doesn't it say somewhere in the
Bible--'A l