"Is there?" said the young man drily. "We'll go there next"; and he went on peering and scribbling. A voice in the distance shouted imperiously, "Number Two, where does this smoke come from?" There was a plodding of heavy, hastening feet above. In an instant the young man and the lift man had disappeared round the corner. Janet ran swiftly down the black passage along which they had come, almost brushing against the painter in her haste, without perceiving him. She flew on, recognising by instinct the once familiar way to the central hall on each landing. Here it was at last. She paused a moment by the gaping lift, and then walked slowly to the head of the iron outer staircase. A policeman was speaking austerely to a short, stout, shabbily-dressed woman of determined aspect, who bore the unmistakable stamp of those whose unquenchable desire it is to be where their presence is not desired, where it is even deprecated. "Only ladies and gents with passes is admitted," the policeman was saying. "But how can I get a pass?" "I don't precisely know," said the policeman cautiously, "but I know it must be signed by Mr Vanbrunt or Mr Brown." "I am the Duchess of Quorn, and I am an intimate friend of Mr Vanbrunt." Janet passed the couple with a beating heart. But apparently there were no restrictions about persons going out, only about those trying to get in. The policeman made way for her at once, and she went down unchallenged. * * * * * In the billiard-room time was waxing short; was obviously running out. The child had arrived from the country with his nurse. Monkey Brand took him in his arms at the door, and knelt down with him beside Cuckoo. "Arty has come to say 'good-morning' to Mammy," he said, in a strangled, would-be cheerful voice. Cuckoo looked at the child wildly for a moment, as the little laughing face came within the radius of her fading sight. She suffered the cool, flower-like cheek to touch hers, but then she whispered to her husband, "Take him away. I want only you." He took Arty back to his nurse, holding him closely to him, and returned to her. Death seemed to have advanced a step nearer with the advent of the child. They both waited for it in silence. "Don't kneel, Arthur," said Cuckoo at last. "You will be so tired." He obediently drew up a little stool, and crouched hunched up upon it, her cold hand between his cold hands. "Is there any one at the door?" she asked, after an age of silence. "No one, dearest; we are quite alone." "I should like to see Janet to say 'good-bye.'" "Must I go and look for her?" "No. I sent her to see if my picture was really safe. It is all you will have to remember me by. She will come and tell me directly." "I do not want any picture of you, Cuckoo." Another silence. "I can't wait much longer," said Cuckoo below her breath; but he heard it. "Are you sure there is no one at the door, Arthur?" "No one." Silence again.