She drove Mrs. Pendrill to St. Maws, and on her return wandered aimlessly about the great lonely house, saying to herself, in a sort of ceaseless cadence: “He is coming. He is coming. He is coming.” Dusk was falling in the dim house. The shadows were growing black in the gloomy hall, where Monica was restlessly pacing. The last pale gleam of sunlight flickered and faded as she watched and waited with intense expectancy. A man’s firm step upon the terrace without—a man’s tall shadow across the threshold. Monica sprang forward with a low cry. “Randolph!” “Not exactly that, Lady Trevlyn!” She stopped short, and threw up her head like some beautiful wild creature at bay. “Sir Conrad, how _dare_ you! Leave my husband’s house this instant! Do you wish him to find you here? Do you wish a second chastisement at his hands?” Conrad’s face flushed crimson, darkening with the intensity of his rage, as he heard those last words. He had been drinking deeply; his usual caution and cowardice were merged in a passionate desire for revenge at all costs. And what better revenge could he enjoy at that moment than to be surprised by the master of the house upon his return in company with his wife? Monica had asked him if he wished Randolph to find him there—it was just that wish which had brought him. “Monica!” he cried passionately, “you shall hear me. I will be heard! You shall not judge me till I can plead my own cause. The veriest criminal is heard in his defence.” He advanced a step nearer, but she recoiled before him, and pointed to the door. “Go, Sir Conrad, unless you wish to be expelled by my servants. I will listen to nothing.” She moved as if to summon assistance, but he sprang forward and seized her hand, holding her wrist in so fierce a grasp that she could neither free herself nor reach the bell. She was a prisoner at his mercy. But Monica was a true Trevlyn, and a stranger to mere physical fear. The madness in his gleaming eyes, the ferocity of his whole aspect, were sufficiently alarming. She knew in this vast place that it would be in vain to call for help, no one would hear her voice; but she faced her enemy with cool, inflexible courage, trusting to her own strong will, and the inherent cowardice of a man who could thus insult a woman alone in her husband’s house. “Loose me, Sir Conrad!” she said. “Not until you have heard me.” “I will not hear you. I know as much of your story as there is any need I should. Loose me, I say! Do you know that my husband will be here immediately? Do you wish _him_ to expel you from his house?” Conrad laughed wildly, a sort of demoniac laugh, that made her shudder in spite of herself. Was he mad? Yes, mad with drink and with fury—not irresponsible, yet so blind, so crazed, so possessed with thoughts of vengeance, that he was almost more dangerous than a raving maniac would have been. His eyes glowed with sullen fire. His voice was hoarse and strained.