“And there’s that woman behind,” she said presently, in a distinct whisper. “Just behind me. Look--when she isn’t looking. How silly you are! Always looking the wrong way. Didn’t I say _behind?_” “Never mind. I’ll take your word for her,” he returned. “But do look. I’m sure she’s--you know. Half of them are in this place. Disgraceful, overdressed things!” He turned with sudden curiosity. Pamela was still twisted round on the seat. She was staring savagely at that impudent brown hat, with the ferocious spiked pins which stuck out in all directions. Edred turned. He saw her--saw her haggard face peering through the smoke and vulgar glitter of the place. As, for that one supreme moment, they stared spellbound at each other, the second woman said impatiently: “Come on. We shall be late. The last time you took me to the theater we were late.” Pamela started up, slipped past the tables, past the rows of diners. Near the door the waiter stood in her path. She dropped a coin in his hand and hurried on. Once outside the door of that place, under the cool sky in a dark side street, she took to her heels like a pickpocket. She was afraid of Edred, more afraid than she had ever been. There had been a new, ugly threat on his face. It would be something more than words this time. After all, words were not the worst. Her flesh was tender; she dreaded that he would beat her. She turned, panting like a closely-pressed hare, into the Strand, held up her umbrella to the first hansom, and hustled in. “Marquise Mansions,” she called up to the driver. “I’ll give you double fare if you drive very quickly.” The horse seemed to fly through the moving, brilliant streets. Before her heart ceased its mad, quick beat of terror and apprehension, the crude red wall of Marquise Mansions was in sight. She went up to the flat, locked herself in her bedroom, dragged off her tight gown, kicked away her shoes, unfastened the piquant hat from her fair hair--and hid everything. She rolled the things in a rough bundle and shot them far under the bed. When Edred burst in ten minutes later, she was half lying in a low chair by the drawing-room window, with a novel in her hands. The lace and cashmere of her tea-gown spread softly about her ankles like the delicate tail of some exquisite foreign bird. CHAPTER XVII. SHE had never seen his face look quite so strange, not even on that mad day in the stuffy Bloomsbury house when she helped him throw his things into the bag and he whispered hoarsely that “they” were after him. She was puzzled by the intensity of his expression. He didn’t love her, he was tired, anxious to be rid of her. That discovery of the contemptible woman in brown should have been propitious for him. And yet he seemed furious, and, more than that, afraid.