On the edge of the table, where it had reposed since Dr Hodder dropped it there, was the small photograph of Matilde. He had not touched it, but he had bent over it for many minutes at a time, studying the sweet, never-to-be-forgotten, and yet curiously unfamiliar features of that long-ago loved one. He looked at it now as he waited for the door to open, and his thoughts leaped back to the last glimpse he had ever had of that adorable face. Then it was white with despair and misery; here it looked up at him with smiling eyes and the languor of unbroken tranquillity. Suddenly he realised that the room was quite dark. He dashed to the window and threw aside the broad, thick curtains. A stream of afternoon sunshine rushed into the place. He would have light this time; he would not be deceived by the darkness, as he had been once before. This time he would see her face plainly. There should be no sickening illusion. He straightened his tall figure and waited for the door to open. The window at his back was open. He heard a penetrating but hushed voice speaking from one of the windows across the court, from his wife's window, he knew without a glance of inquiry. Céleste, her maid, was giving orders in great agitation to the furnace-man in the yard below. “No, no, you big fool! I am not dismiss. I am not going away--no. Tak' _zem_ back. _Madame_ has change her mind. I am not fire non, _non!_ Tak' zem back, _vitement!_ I go some other day!” The door was opened suddenly and Yvonne came into the room. CHAPTER XXI If she had hesitated outside the room to summon the courage to face the man who would demand so much of her, there was nothing in her manner when she entered to indicate that such had been the case. She approached him without a symptom of nervousness or irresolution. Her dark eyes met his without wavering, and there was purpose in them. She devoted a single glance of surprise to the uncurtained window on entering the door, and an instant later scrutinised the floor with unmistakable interest, as if expecting to find something there to account for his motive in admitting the glare of light, something to confound and accuse her. But there was no fear in the look. She had put on a rather plain white blouse, open at the neck. The cuffs were rolled up nearly to the elbows, evidence that she had been using her hands in some active employment and had either forgotten or neglected to restore the sleeves to their proper position. A chic black walking-skirt lent to her trim, erect figure a suggestion of girlishness. Her arms hung straight down at her sides, limply it would have seemed at first glance, but in reality they were rigid.