And he kept his word. As Ffrench was going out into the street at dusk he felt a touch on his shoulder, and turning, found Murdoch close behind him. "I'm ready," he said, "if you are." When they reached the house, the man who opened the door stared at them blankly, which so irritated Ffrench that he found an excuse for administering a sharp rebuke to him about some trifle. "They are always making some stupid blunder," he said to Murdoch as they passed upstairs to the drawing-room. But Murdoch did not hear. It was one of the occasions on which Rachel Ffrench reached her highest point of beauty. Her black velvet dress was almost severe in its simplicity, and her one ornament was the jewelled star in her high _coiffure_. M. St. Meran held his place at her side. He received Murdoch with _empressement_ and exhibited much tact and good feeling. But Murdoch would have none of him. He had neither tact nor experience. His time did not come until the evening was nearly over, and it would never have come if he had not at last forced her to confront him by making his way to her side with a daring which was so novel in him that it would have mastered another woman. Near her he trembled a little, but he said what he had come to say. "To-day," he said, "when I called--your servant told me you were not at home." She paused a moment before answering, but when she did answer he trembled no more. "That was unfortunate," she said. "It was not true--I saw you at the window." She looked him quietly in the face, answering him in two words. "Did you?" He turned on his heel and walked away. His brain whirled; he did not know how he got out of the room. He was scarcely conscious of existence until he found himself out-of-doors. He got beyond the gate and into the road, and to the end of the road, but there he stopped and turned back. He went back until he found he was opposite the house again, looking up at the lighted window, he did not know why. A sharp rain was falling, but he did not feel it. He stood staring at the window, mechanically plucking at the leaves on the hedge near him. He scarcely knew whether it was a curse or a sob which fell from his lips and awakened him at last. "Am I going mad?" he said. "Do men go mad through such things? God forbid! It has all been a lie--a lie--a lie!!" CHAPTER XLII. "ANOTHER MAN!" In two days Haworth returned. He came from the station one morning, not having been home. He did not go to the Works, but to the bank and straight into Ffrench's private room. The look this unhappy gentleman gave him when he saw him was a queer mixture of anxiety, furtive query, and amiably frank welcome,--the frank welcome a very faint element indeed, though it was brought to light by a violent effort. Haworth shut the door and locked it, and then turned upon him, his face black with rage. "Say summat!" he ground out through his teeth. "Say summat as'll keep me from smashing every bone in your body!"