“Yes,” he said. “I--dear; what have they done to you while I was gone? Have they frightened you? You look so pale. I should never have left you. My father is hasty, unjust! But I’ll take care of you now.” “I don’t want you to,” she said lifelessly. Her eyes were on the window that was open to the fresh air, and she went to it, like a prisoner who is strange to the light of day. Erle took no notice; it was too high from the ground to be dangerous. He went to the fire, and threw on dry wood till the room was light as day. There was no sense in mystery or concealment now, since the thing must be done and published before a week at farthest. After that detectives could root out what they liked. As he turned his back she leaned from the window, and her helplessness stung her afresh as she breathed the damp, sweet air. She was high above the ground, there was not even grass to break the fall if she dared to jump out. There was ivy, but not directly below the window; its trails swayed at the sides out of her reach. Swayed--she watched it with vague wonder. Why should it move in the stirless air? Why did the woody stems creak in the twilight at her right hand? A log Erle laid on the fire slipped, and rolled blazing on the hearth. He kicked it back impatiently, with a noise that must have startled her in the silent room, for she gave a queer, stifled cry. “Confound the thing!” he said irritably, for the log had slipped again. As he wrestled with it he did not notice her lean from the window perilously, and stare through the twilight at something that was not an ivy branch; something that moved, but not with the chill, evening air. A lean hand she knew, a hand no one could mistake who had once seen it, was stretched out to her from the ivy where something clung like a hat. It pressed a scrap of paper into her outstretched fingers; a voice whispered in her very ear. But she had no time to hear the low words; Erle’s light, delicate step was coming toward her. Clutching a scrap of paper, she drew back from the window just in time. Erle was at her shoulder. And oh! was she mad as they said, to dream she had seen the lunatic she had left thousands of miles away? Her heart thumped till she was sure Erle must hear it. How could she get rid of him long enough to read that paper that seemed to sting in her hand? “What’s the matter?” he said quickly. “Don’t shake like that; I’m not going to hurt you.” He looked over her shoulder out the window, fearful the wet would drive back his father and the priest; and Beryl’s heart contracted. Had he seen--been nearer than she knew? “I’m cold!” she said sharply, and walked away from him to the fire. If he had seen, that paper should burn before he got it! But he did not even follow her. “What has my father done to you?” he said, his worn, handsome face haggard in the firelight. “But I needn’t ask--I know! I was a fool ever to leave you.”