They stood close now, his arms fast round her; through the silk of his mustache she felt his lips on hers, and knew that, come what might, for one long instant she had stood at the gate of heaven. “My sweet, how can I leave you?” he said, letting her go a little that he might feast his eyes on her face, that was transfigured. “Leave me? Why should you leave me?” “Kiss me again, and I’ll tell you.” But she could not; a curious premonition had suddenly brought her back to the old Ismay Trelane, who must watch, and think, and scheme. “Tell me, now,” she said, and at the weariness in her voice he drew her to him, penitently. “Was I too rough with you, sweet? I’m so sorry. But I really have to go away; that was why I came over to-day. I must go to London to-morrow.” “Away from me?” but she could not smile. “Does town count before me?” “Nothing does. But after you comes a duty to the dead.” “To the dead?” She stared at him. “Do you mean Sir Gaspard?” “No; but it’s a ghastly thing to talk of to-day.” “Tell me; you’re frightening me; I--I hate death.” “Don’t be frightened, sweet; it is nothing to do with you, not much with me. But do you remember how they found Lord Abbotsford dead this autumn? Or did you ever hear of it?” “I--I heard.” Her eyes, black, dilated, with terror, stared, unseeing, at his unconscious face. “Well, I’ve had a detective working at it ever since--and--this is the first secret I’ve ever told you, sweet, and it is a secret--he wants to see me at once. He thinks he has got a clue to the murderer. Why, Ismay! Darling! Why did I speak of such a horror to you?” with dismay. For she had slipped like water through his arms, a lifeless heap on the cold ground. CHAPTER XX. THE EDGE OF DOOM. A cold black void; a struggle that was agony to get out of it; a falling through deep waters that were loud in her ears, then blackness once more, deep and awful. Slowly, slowly, it faded, and with a sickness like death at her heart Ismay was conscious again. Where was she? What was this? She lifted her head from the wintry earth, and let it fall again. “Lie still; don’t move.” Cylmer was kneeling beside her, inwardly cursing himself for a fool, when he knew her horror of death. “Ismay, darling, forgive me, and forget it. I might have known it was enough to sicken any woman.” “Death--murder--you!” she cried incoherently. “Ever since I came here death has been round me, I”--her voice was shrill, hysterical--“I smell death in Marchant’s Hold, and I meet it.” Her eyes closed again. “No, no! Don’t talk like that, my sweet,” gathering her close with protecting arms. “I was a brute to tell you such things. You were tired out, unstrung already. I was too rough and careless with you, my heart.” But she shrank away. “You--to bring any one to their death; to find clues that would hang them!” “It is not I, it is justice. Oh! don’t draw away from me.”