She was weak with the vision flashing before her of disgrace, of the police, of discovery, of Miles’ face when he knew, and in them she forgot the most important words Wray had spoken that night, though she had heard them well enough. “And the weather’s changed. It is freezing hard.” They carried Cristiane’s life and death, and her own fate hung on them, and, shrewd as she was, Ismay overlooked them. CHAPTER XXIV. “I NEVER SAW IT BEFORE.” The frost still held. The river that ran through Cylmer’s Ferry was skimmed with ice; the lake at Marchant’s Hold was a shining, glittering thing as Ismay passed it on her way to keep her tryst at the stile. Only at one side, where a deep brook ran into it, was there a spot of black ice. Ismay passed it without a glance as she hurried on. Wray had been at her elbow all the afternoon, hideous, revolting, stinging her with veiled hints of the price that she, and she alone, could pay for her mother’s safety. She had broken away from him at last, with the arrival of tea and Cristiane, and before the eyes of the heiress he had made no attempt to detain her. There was nothing she could do down here at Marchant’s Hold. He laughed as he saw her hurrying out through the frozen park, as if to get away from an unclean atmosphere and drink deep of the stainless air. And yet it was then that fate laughed, too, had he known it; laughed even at that luck of Marcus Wray that the agony of a frail girl would presently meet. Cylmer, straight from the station, strode to meet Ismay as she reached the stile. The place was silent, deserted, and he took her in his arms. She felt the cloth of his coat under her cheek, felt his arms tighten once more about her, steeled herself to meet his kiss. Oh, God! In ten minutes, in five, would there be that between them that would stop his kisses forevermore? “You’re pale.” He held her at arm’s length to look at her. “You’re cold. I was a brute to bring you out in this freezing weather.” “No, no, I don’t feel it.” She led the way to the stile. “I think I am tired. Let us sit down,” with a smile that was not like her own. “I thought I’d never get back,” he said, sitting down beside her, his arm round her to draw her close. “You were right, Ismay. It was an awful business. Don’t draw away from me, sweet! There’s not a soul to see.” “Why was it awful?” For once her scarlet lips were dry. “Do you mean you’ve found the murderer?” “No. But we shall; and the awful part is that it must have been a woman who poisoned him. But let us talk of something else, of you and me. I’m sick of the ugly side of life.” Sick? What would he be when he knew it all? “Tell me first. I like to know all you do, you know.” Would her heart ever beat again, would he feel her strained breathlessness as she sat within his arm?