“You are what people call good,” she said slowly; “and I was sorry for you. I did my best for you--in a fashion. Stand still and let me look at you--for I may never see you again.” Something in her eyes made Cristiane cold. “What do you mean?” she shrieked. “Are you going away?” She sprang forward, and took Ismay’s hand, but the girl shook her off. “I am going to bed,” she said shortly. “Tell them not to disturb me. I stole your note, Cristiane, but you are revenged. You have stolen from me enough to make me go to bed without my dinner.” Lightly, pitilessly, she nodded as she turned away. Let Marcus do what he liked, it was nothing to her that he should have one more sin on his shoulders. For if ever a woman was mad with misery, it was Ismay Trelane that night. Still in her outdoor dress she sat crouched on her bed, motionless as a panther who waits to spring, death-driven, almost hopeless. In the house the gong sounded for dinner; a servant came to the door, and was sent petulantly away. Mrs. Trelane, all silks and rustle, knocked in annoyance. “Aren’t you coming down?” she cried. “No. Please go away and leave me alone. I shall be all right in the morning. I’m tired,” with a tearless sob. She was weary to the bone. The shock of yesterday had borne hard on her vigorous young body; the shock of to-day had withered her very soul. She was faint for want of food, but she could not break bread with Cristiane or Marcus Wray, and yet she must eat, or this night’s work would never be done. At a tap on her door she opened it, to see Jessie; Jessie, who honestly loved her for many a kind word given when Cristiane had been cruelly sharp with the faithful soul. “I brought some soup and wine, Miss Ismay,” she said. “Are you sick? You’re that pale.” At the only kind word she had heard all day Ismay Trelane stooped and kissed the honest, fresh cheek of the servant-woman. “No, I’m tired,” she said slowly. “Make them let me be till the morning. Promise, Jessie.” “Will I get you to bed?” confused at the honor done her. “Will I fetch Miss Cristiane?” “Don’t fetch any one, and I’ll lock my door now. I’m afraid of that ghost.” “She don’t walk so early,” said the woman, with simple belief. “Good night, Miss Ismay. I’ll not come in the morning till you ring.” Ismay laughed. “That’s a good soul,” she said. “Let me sleep--till I ring.” Jessie would scarcely have known her ten minutes later, as she stood in front of her glass, putting on the old clothes some mood had made her bring with her to Marchant’s Hold. Shabby, ugly, too short, the dress hung on her, the old-fashioned hat set absurdly on her head. But there was color in her face from the soup and wine, as she put into a safe hiding-place in her coat the scarab that was all the clue she had.