Before it had been softest green and pink; now a constant red ray gleamed from the centre. He noted it, and turned it many ways. The light still remained—no passing brilliancy or change of colour. Then he went into the inner room, and noted the different blendings and the texture by placing it beneath a glass, there to examine it minutely. Finally he poured out from an old flagon, worked and chased in a substance like polished silver, a liquid that flamed up in the crucible like white-flamed fire, intense and beautiful. And into this he threw a stone that matched in some respects the one he carried in his hand. Under this great strength of heat it disappeared; no tiny fragment of lustre or of substance now remained. And quite remorseless to its fate, he next flung in the stone that Rosalie had given him, and bent forward eagerly to notice the effect. No change! A glimmering blend of colour on the surface of the flame. Then with his fingers, as if the leaping tongues had been but water, he took the jewel out, and dashed the sprays of fire away like drops of water. A smile, incredulous and all surprised, at first played on his lips and in his eyes as he looked at the jewel. Then after some deep thought, he started as one from a dream, the light of sudden understanding in his eyes. He placed the stone once more within its case, and put it in an inner pocket, then left the room and locked the door again. Leaving the wing, he went out into the central hall, and passed across it to the eastern side, with its brilliant door and exterior brightness, all so false to the sordid truth behind. But there he paused, and called across the high, empty, echoing space: “Everard, what is Mariana’s number? I forget.” “Thirteen.” The answer was simple and distinct. “That’s a lucky number, isn’t it?” “I believe it’s a significant one. Unlucky, some say.” “We go by the rule of contrary. I think myself it must be lucky.” And he laughed and flung open the great doors and passed inside. They swung to after him. Then at the door he sought for he stopped, and with the same quick movement threw it open. Inside, the miserable cell, the scanty furniture, the covered table, the cobwebs, the thick dust, the cloud of hovering moths, the stiff and rigid figure; but to his eyes on entering, not the central figure of attraction. For there upon the table, standing daintily upon the covering cloth, he saw the little satin clogs, with their golden strings and skate-like edges, that turned up daintily, bearing an almost laughable resemblance to someone’s pretty nose. For in the same way that many persons’ clothes on wearing them become a part of them and look like them, so these, scarce worn, became and looked a part of Rosalie. And in the midst of all this mildew, and decay, and icy lifelessness, they stood a thing of life—an open protest against everything surrounding them.