ymond's arms about her.

So frightened was she now that for an instant the human touch was a
blessing. She relaxed, panting and trembling. In that moment she felt
kisses upon her lips, her eyes, her throat!

She sprang away, dashing against the furniture and then, as suddenly as
they had failed, the lights were blazing and in the revealment Joan
faced the man across the room.

Her face was flaming, but his was as white as if death had marked it.

"You--coward!" she flung out.

The words stung and hurt.

Raymond did not move bodily, but his eyes seemed to be coming nearer the
girl.

"If you do not go at once," Joan said, slowly, "I will call for help."

"Oh! no, you won't, and I am not going to-night."

The beast in Raymond had never risen before, had never been suspected,
never been trained: it was the more dangerous because of that.

"What?" Joan stared at him aghast.

"I said that I am not going to-night."

The awful feeling of familiarity again swept over Joan. She felt that
she must have lived through the scene: had made a mistake that must not
be made a second time.

"You have been drinking," she said, and her voice shook. She had hoped
that she might save him the degradation of knowing that she understood.

"Well! Suppose I have? It has made me live. Set me free. I wonder if you
have ever lived?"

"I am afraid not." Joan could not repress the sob that rose in her
throat.

"We can live, I bet." Raymond gave his ugly laugh. "That line in our
hands gives us the right."

For a moment Joan contemplated escape. Any escape open to her. The
telephone, the door, even a call from the window in the heart of the
storm. Then the desire was gone and with it all personal fear. She
wanted again, in a vague way, to save this man who had once been her
friend. She felt that she must save him.

Somehow, she had wronged him. She must find out just how, and then he
might once more be as she had known him.

Presently it came to her. She should have known that he could not
understand the past. He had pretended to, while they had played their
foolish game, but when restraint was set aside he showed the deadly
truth. She had cheapened herself, cheapened all women--she could not fly
now, not until she had made him see the mistake.

Raymond was crossing the room. He laughed, and insanity flashed in his
eyes.

"What shall I call you from now on?" he said: "Sylvia?--or shall we make
up another name?"

"My name is