It seemed to Hemming that he waited hours in the narrow, heavily furnished room. He could not sit still. At last he got to his feet, and, crossing to a corner table, examined the photographs of some people he knew. He wondered where his had gone to--the full-length portrait by Bettel, in field-uniform. He looked for it everywhere, an uncomfortable curiosity pricking him. Turning from his search, he saw Miss Travers watching him. He took a step toward her, and stopped short. Her face was white, her eyes were dark with the shadow of pain. Something had put out the familiar illumination that love had lighted so gloriously. "Molly," whispered the man. His hands, extended at first sight of her, dropped impotently at his side. "For God's sake, what is the matter?" he cried. His honest gray eyes asked the question as plainly. Hers wavered, and looked beyond him in a pitiful, strained gaze. "Why do you ask? You surely know," she said. He could not speak for a moment. His brain, in a whirl of apprehension, groped for some clue whereby it might find understanding. "I know nothing," he said, at last, "save that I am horribly afraid of something I do not understand--of your silence and the change in you." He paused for a moment, scanning her averted face. "And now I am a poor man," he added. At that a faint red stole into her cheeks. He drew nearer and laid a hand quickly and tenderly upon her shoulder. "Dear girl, can that weigh against me?" he asked, scarce above his breath. She moved from his touch with a gesture that sent the blood ringing back to brain and heart. The madness of the righteous anger ebbed, leaving him cool and observant. "I must beg your pardon for intruding, and now I shall go," he said. "It was well worth the loss of a few thousands of pounds--to find the real nature of your love." He passed her with squared shoulders and sneering lip, and strode briskly toward the door. "Wait," she cried, "I do not understand you." Her voice contained a new note. He turned on the threshold and bowed. "You have known me long enough," he said. "Yes," she replied. He stood in the doorway and stared at her. "If I am dreaming, then wake me, dear. Surely you love me?" His voice was tense. He moved as if to approach her again. "I have learned of your other life--of your living lie," she cried, weakly. "My other life," he repeated, smiling gently. "Yes," she said, "from my cousin. It was his duty. Tell me it is not true." He saw the tears in her eyes. He marked the supplication in her voice. But he did not move from the threshold. "From Penthouse?" he inquired. She did not answer him. She stood with one hand raised to her breast, and a world of entreaty in her gaze. "I thought," said Hemming, coldly, "that you loved me. I thought that when a woman loved the man who loves her, that she also trusted him. But I am very ignorant, considering my age."