“Even if he does tell her he’s called twice, she won’t believe him now!” she reflected, pausing at the library door. It was shut. From inside came a murmur of voices. Cristiane’s strained, wild, almost joyful; then another--oh! it was not Miles Cylmer’s. Sick with terror, Ismay clung to the door-handle. Whose voice was it that she heard, cold, suave to oiliness? Surely she was dreaming; it could not be that voice here! “Tell me, tell me everything!” Cristiane was crying, but her voice, broken and piercing, was distinct to the girl whose feet were failing under her. “All I know.” The answer was plain, and conviction struck heavy at Ismay’s heart. It was he, Marcus Wray! But how had he got here, and what was he telling Cristiane? His voice went on low and smooth, his words she could not hear. And she dared not go in; she, Ismay Trelane, who had said she feared nothing, was cold with fear now. She got up-stairs, her knees trembling under her as she stumbled into the room where Mrs. Trelane sat, gloating over her toilets. The blood gone from her cheek, her heart hammering at her side, Ismay clutched her by the shoulder, her shut throat so dry that she could not speak. “Are you crazy?” Mrs. Trelane cried angrily. “You hurt me; let me go.” Ismay shook her fiercely. “Go down, quick!” she muttered. “He’s there with Cristiane. He’s telling her something--it must be about us. You must go and stop him.” “Him! Who?” Ismay’s grasp slackened. “Marcus Wray.” For a minute they looked at each other, the elder woman’s face turning from unbelief to gray despair. How had her enemy found her? “Go! There’s no time to waste,” the girl said sharply. “I knew he’d hunt us down. I didn’t think it would be so soon.” Mrs. Trelane drew a long breath. “Perhaps he will find it is different now,” she said. “We can keep him quiet with money; oh, I know we can!” “It may be too late--now. And you once kept him quiet with diamonds!”--contemptuously. “I’ll do what I can.” She was not so frightened as Ismay, though she knew Marcus Wray. Startled she was at his finding her, yet surely now that she had money and position she could make terms with a man who lived by his wits. A sense of power had grown in her since the day she had looked defiance into Miles Cylmer’s eyes; she felt strong now, even for Marcus Wray, as she opened the library door and went in gracefully, languidly, as though she expected nothing. Yet what she saw was staggering enough. Marcus Wray, in the flesh, sat with his back to her, faultlessly dressed, as usual, his black hair brushed to satin. Facing him was Cristiane, her checks crimson, her violet eyes shining softly, the dyes of one moved to the depths. “Dear Mrs. Trelane”--the girl had started up and run to her--“I was just going to send for you. This gentleman has been telling me things I--I was sick to hear.” Helen Trelane’s upper lip was wet.