“Oh, that’s different.” Cylmer grew red under his bronze. “But you wouldn’t understand, and I don’t want you to. Come home, darling mine; it’s too cold for you here.” Home, to Marcus and his evil plots; to the mother she had wronged in her thoughts ever since that awful day, but who, innocent or guilty, was putting her head blindly into another noose. “I wish I were going home with you,” she cried, with a shyness that made her hide her face the second the words were out. “I hate Marchant’s Hold!” “You could come to-morrow if you would let me have my way,” rapture at her avowal in his voice. “Look up, Ismay. Don’t be ashamed. There is nothing that can’t be said between you and me.” “I wish I thought so,” she murmured with sudden significance. “Perhaps I shall some day. What are you and the detectives going to do?” she asked, holding the little beetle tight. “Find out who the woman is who was in his rooms that day--and then, I suppose, I’ll strain every nerve to keep her from being hanged as she deserves,” with a laugh at his own weakness. “Women have always been kind to me, my Ismay,” simply and without the least conceit, as though such kindness were a debt he must repay. But she guessed shrewdly that many a woman had loved Miles Cylmer, and worn sorrow at her heart for her folly. “Miles, if I had done it could you love me still?” she said, on an impulse. “You? Don’t even in fun class yourself with a woman like that!” sternly. “Well, then, my mother!” It was almost a cry. “If she had done it would you marry me? Tell me.” Cylmer was absolutely truthful. For a moment he looked away from her, awkwardly. “Ismay, don’t ask me,” he answered very low. “I--I don’t know.” And he never turned to see that the knife had gone home to the hilt. “You’re quite right,” she spoke slowly, flatly. “I shouldn’t have said it. Take me home now. You’ll tell me, won’t you, if you think you are going to find--that woman?” “Yes,” reluctantly. “But I wish I had never named a woman like that to you. Wait, Ismay,” with a motion of his broad shoulders, as if he shook off the memory of a distasteful burden, “I want to give you something first.” He drew a case from his pocket, and even in the light that was nearly gone from the sky she saw something flash as he opened it. The next instant he slipped a band of great diamonds, each one a fortune, on her smooth white finger. “With my body I thee worship,” he quoted softly, his eyes, that were her heaven, bent on her changing face. “I will say that once more when I put another ring on your finger.” For a moment her hard-held composure was gone. “Mark,” she stammered, “I can’t wear it.” “Mark! My name isn’t Mark.” He looked at her hardly, sharply in the dusk. “What do you mean, Ismay? Are you dreaming, or do you think you are talking to another man?” Appalled by her own slip of the tongue, she could not speak. What was this love doing to her, that she was losing her nerve, her self-command?