Ned stepped, without sound, over the flags. The hour was still so early that hardly a soul was abroad. His tired eyes felt the restfulness of the rounded beds of snow; his throat took in the stinging wine of the morning in grateful draughts. He had had but a little troubled sleep, and his wits seemed plugged and his brain sore. He wanted to think. He wanted to understand why it was that his thoughts--that should have been all of the tragic quenching of a flame that had for so long been his beacon in waste places--were unable to rescue themselves from a weary toing-and-froing before the closed door of his own bedroom. He wanted to understand, and he could not. Only it dully presented itself to him as a monstrous thing that the later image should dominate his mind. If he could recover but a little clearness of moral vision, he was sure he would see what a foul wrong to his own loyal heart he was being led into committing. So he tried to reason--in the lack, as he felt, of reason itself. And still the cold air would not cleanse his brain of the impurity; and still the figure that haunted him as he walked was not Pamela’s. Then he whispered aloud--as if to see whether spoken words would not prevail with him: “She is a murderess. I have given her scarcely a thought but of loathing. And now--because of a specious dumb appeal--Damnation! For all she has gone through, she is as sound of wind and limb as a pagan Circe--a perfect animal still. I think she cannot suffer without a soul.” He strode on more rapidly. “I must find her another lodging--at once, without delay.” Walking preoccupied, unregarding his direction, he had made down one of the side streets that led into the Place Louis XV. Suddenly the sound of shrill jolly voices startled him. He looked up in amazement, to see close before him something, the fact of whose existence he had hitherto most shrinkingly ignored. Sanson and his satellites were engaged in washing down the guillotine. They were as voluble as grooms over a carriage--and, indeed, the machine had its wheels and shafts and splashboard--even its luggage-basket--all complete. Now, committed involuntarily to view of it, Ned inspected the horrible engine with some curiosity. “Hullo, then, my jackadandy!” cried one of the grooms boisterously. “Art thou seeking a barber?” “No,” said Ned; “but the answer to a riddle.” The man fondled a beam, grimacing. “It is all one,” said he. “Here is the oracle.” “I believe it is,” said Ned; “only I am not yet sure of the question;” and he turned away. He breakfasted at a _café_, made a particular little purchase to which he was whimsically attracted, and returned about mid-day to his chambers. They struck very cold and quiet. There did not seem a sound in the house. He entered his sitting-room and closed the door. The girl was crouched in her old place upon the rug. She looked up at him mutely as he went by her, without a word, to the fire.