At the corner of the street he paid the man and walked rapidly into Cheynel Gardens, his nose showing above the collar of his overcoat. Happily, the street was empty. He almost ran when he reached the familiar façade of his house, turned into the side passage, and, with a trembling hand, fitted the key into the lock of the back gate. Suppose it were bolted? The horrid doubt was no sooner in his mind than it was dispelled. The key turned easily, and he found himself looking up at the familiar window of his study. Tiptoeing to the little door, he listened. There was no sound, and, with minute care to avoid making the slightest noise, he pushed his pass-key slowly in the lock, and pushed the door open a fraction of an inch. Not a sound. He opened it a little further, slipped behind the curtain which hid the door, and closed it behind him. The room was empty, the two doors into the hall ajar. He could hear the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock on the staircase. His first step, he had decided, must be to get into touch with Bobbie. Listening at the hall door, he heard the click of steel on china--Diana was at lunch, as he had expected. He closed first the baize, and then the inner door softly, shot a bolt and tiptoed across the room. Bless Diana for bringing the telephone into The Study! Bobbie’s office responded. A late leaving clerk had heard the ring of the ’phone and came back to answer. “No, sir, Mr. Selsbury is not in to-day.” Gordon rang off without disclosing his identity, and tried Bobbie’s lodgings in Half Moon Street, with no better success. He was wasting valuable time, he realised, and Bobbie could wait. He put on the receiver and stood up, stretching himself, with an easy, happy, home-coming smile. Yes, Diana would be surprised. He crossed the room to the hall. His hand was on the handle when, glancing round, he saw the curtain which hid the door into the courtyard move and billow. He had left the door open, he thought, and was on the point of returning to close it, when a hand came round the edge of the curtain, and he stood, frozen to the spot. Again the draperies moved, and a woman came into view. It was Heloise! Gordon did not believe the evidence of his eyes. She was some vision conjured up by an overheated brain, a symptom of disordered nerves. “You are not real,” he said dully. “Avaunt!” “Gordon!” The outstretched hands, the plea in her eyes. Gordon Selsbury stood with his back to the door. “How did you come here?” he croaked. “Through the garden gate--the way you came.... I followed you. Gordon, he is furious! You must protect me.” He could only stare at her owlishly. “You mean--Peter?” he nodded. “Peter? No, my husband, Claude. He knows everything!” dramatically. “Is he ... an editor?” He was talking foolishly: nobody knew that better than Gordon; but the works were beginning to slow down again. And then she came to him and dropped both her hands on his arm.