Was the man utterly callous that he did not care that his wife was killed, that he could lie about the dead? As the door closed behind him she stood rigid, in raging, biting desire for vengeance. “I made a mistake when I taxed him with it,” she thought. “But I know it’s true, for I saw him wince. Oh, my Andria!” the tears coming at last to her burning eyes. “I should have stayed by her, held her tight, never let her go. She warned me what he was like. Why did I ever listen to him? And what am I, that he wants me--that he means to have me, even over a grave? Andria--Heriot----” She crushed her hands against her mouth that she might not cry out the names she loved. “You died for me,” she whispered, anguish shaking her; “because I am what I am; they killed you to get me. That man was right. It was I who killed you. Oh, who am I, that they drag me with them? That they want me? I would give”--she stopped short, her strange eyes dilated--“I’ll give my life, Andria; I have no more!” she whispered. Two hours afterward there came a knock at her cabin door. To Erle’s astonishment, she opened it quite readily and stood quietly before him. It had grown dark, and the electric light in the cabin dawned slowly and lit up her face that was white as chalk, but absolutely indifferent. “Come,” he said, hiding his surprise, “we are going ashore. Let the stewardess pack your things.” “I have none--not even a hat.” “It’s dark and warm; it doesn’t matter. You shall have all you want as soon as you land.” He could hardly take his eyes from the strange beauty of her face. Transcendental, unearthly, she stood in the pale electric light as one who sees a vision. The quick thought came to him that she meant to drown herself as they landed. But, though he kept at her elbow for fear, she never even glanced at the dark water round the ship. Only as Erceldonne spoke to her did her strange calm flicker; hatred sprang into her eyes as she turned silently away. In the boat, on the pier, at the station, Erle waited breathlessly for her to break away. But she stood like a statue, and never asked a question--moved when he led her without a sign of dissent. If Mother Felicitas had seen her face she would have been ready for some outburst, effective as it was unexpected. The two men merely thought the shock of what she had heard had cowed her. All that night as she sat in a railway-carriage, one thought rang like bells in her head. The man at whose door two deaths lay should pay for them. And to do it she must go with him, find out who she was and why she was desirable. If she tried to run away they would catch her; if she went back to the convent she could find out no more than if she were in her grave. She sat with eyes shut till they thought her asleep, and planned and replanned her revenge; that she might not remember Brian Heriot and fall to crying for the face that she would see no more.