Athena Maule did not know Hew Lingard with the intimate knowledge she had known other men who had loved her. But there was this comfort--about this man she would be able to consult Jane--Jane who was so kind, so reasonable, and who only wished to do the best for them both. She reminded herself that men are always blind where women are concerned. If nothing else would convince Hew Lingard that Jane, after all, did not care so very much, then Jane must be persuaded, after a decent interval, to marry Dick Wantele. After what had happened to-day, everything was possible.... Athena, to-night, was "fey." She felt as if she held the keys of fate in her hands. But even so, she went on thinking of Lingard's bitter words long after they had parted, and when, having dismissed her maid, she was heating the cup of chocolate which sometimes sent her to sleep without an opiate. And then, as she lay down among her pillows, there came over Athena Maule the curious sensation that she was not alone. Bayworth Kaye--poor Bayworth, of whom she had thought so kindly, so regretfully, only two nights ago--seemed to be there, close to her, watching, waiting.... Athena did not believe in ghosts, and so she did not feel frightened, only surprised--very much surprised. She turned on the light and sat up in bed. This feeling of another presence close to her--how strong it still was!--must be a result of the emotion she had just gone through, of her exciting little scene with Hew Lingard. It was strange that she should think of Bayworth Kaye here, in this room where he had never been but once, and then only for a moment on a June night when they had both been more reckless than usual. It would have been so much more natural to have felt a survival of Bayworth's presence downstairs--when she had been in Lingard's arms.... Suddenly she was overwhelmed with an intense, an overmastering drowsiness, and, quite unconscious of what was happening to her, she fell back, asleep. The light above the low rose-red bed was still burning when they found her in the morning. CHAPTER XX "Who spake of Death? Let no one speak of Death. What should Death do in such a merry house? With but a wife, a husband, and a friend To give it greeting?..." Richard Maule sat up in bed. He had taken a rather larger dose of chloral than usual the night before, and he had over-slept himself. 'Twixt sleeping and waking he had seemed to hear a number of extraordinary sounds--they were, however, sounds to which he had become accustomed, for they were produced by the Paches' motor. Now his servant was drawing up the blinds, moving about the room with well-trained, noiseless steps. It seemed to him that the man avoided looking across at the bed; but when, at last, his persistent glance caused the servant to look round, nothing could be seen in the other's impassive face. "Is it a fine morning, Carver?" "No, sir--at least, yes, sir. But it's been raining."