“But as we are not both of us willing, there is no use in discussing the question any longer. I am so tired. It seems to me I would give everything I am likely to possess in this world for a few hours of oblivion and rest.” And her face looked strangely haggard and troubled in the strong, white light of the chandelier. “Only that you are such a will-o’-the-wisp,” he said complainingly. “If I let you go now, I shall never see you again.” “I don’t know about that,” she said, with a faint smile. “I begin to have a feeling as if I could not escape you if I would.” “Then why try?” he asked softly. “Because I can’t help myself,” she answered, with a blush; and then she added desperately: “You must leave me now; I cannot stand any more--indeed I cannot.” “Will you promise to see me to-morrow, Gwendolyn?” “I cannot promise anything, for I am too broken down to realize the sense of what I am saying. I will see you if I can, although these interviews only harass us both, and do us no good. Still, since you wish it, I will try to satisfy you, although I feel to-night as if I must be going to have a serious illness.” Her glittering eyes, white cheeks, and feverish lips showed that there really was something wrong with her; and Colonel Dacre looked at her anxiously. “You have done too much,” he said. “If I leave you, will you promise to go straight to bed?” “Yes, that I will, thankfully. Good night.” The table was not between them now, somehow, and, before she had time to resist, he caught her in his arms, and kissed her lips and eyes in a mad passion of love. Then, without waiting for her reproaches, he hurried from the room. That night he stayed at the “Langham,” unknown to either Lady Gwendolyn or Mrs. O’Hara. His mind disturbed by the events of the day, he found it impossible to sleep, and yet he knew he should be useless all day unless he could get some rest for his aching brain. Finally it occurred to him that his traveling-flask was full of fine old cognac, and that, as physical exhaustion, as well as mental worry, had something to do with his wakefulness, some stimulant might help him through. He therefore mixed himself a pretty strong dose--about twice the quantity he would have taken ordinarily--and then lay down again, his nerves wonderfully soothed, and a pleasant languor stilling the riot of his irritable pulse. His last conscious act was to glance at the clock, and say to himself: “I must not sleep for more than three hours, at the longest.” And he fancied--but that must have been the beginning of a grotesque dream--that the clock winked at him, as much as to express, derisively: “We shall see.” CHAPTER XII. A WILL-O’-THE-WISP.