“So do I. He saw her. She disappeared as she did that night in the fog. A woman like that is n't human. She has the power of disappearing at will. You can't measure her cunning.” “What did he go down for?” He told her. Unity's lips twitched. “And he sat there in the rain just looking at her window?” She put out her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Herold. When you see Miss Stellamaris, you 'll tell her I'm a good girl--in that way, you know--and that I love her. She has been a kind of beautiful angel to me--has always been with me. It's funny; I can't explain. But you understand. If you'd only let her see that, I'd be so happy--and perhaps she'd be happier.” “I 'll do my utmost,” said Herold. He accompanied her down-stairs, and when she had gone, he returned to the library and walked about. The horror of the woman was upon him. He drank another brandy and soda. After a while Ripley came in with a soiled card on a tray. He looked at it stupidly--“Mr. Edwin Travers”--and nodded. “Shall I show the gentleman up?” He nodded again, thinking of the woman. When the visitor came in he vaguely recognized him as a broken-down actor, a colleague of early days. As in a dream he bade the man sit down, and gave him cigarettes and drink, and heard with his outer ears an interminable tale of misfortune. At the end of it he went to his desk and wrote out a cheque, which he handed to his guest. “I can't thank you, old man. I don't know how to. But as soon as I can get an engagement--hello, old man,” he cried, glancing at the cheque, “you've made a funny mistake--the name!” Herold took the slip of paper, and saw that he had made the sum payable not to Edwin Travers, but to Louisa Risca. It was a shock, causing him to brace his faculties. He wrote out another cheque, and the man departed. He went softly into John's room and found him sleeping peacefully. Soon afterward Ripley announced that dinner was ready. It was past six o'clock. “Great Heavens!” he cried aloud, “I've got to play to-night.” After a hurried wash he went into the dining-room and sat down at the table, but the sight and smell of food revolted him. He swallowed a few mouthfuls of soup; the rest of the dinner he could not touch. The horror of the woman had seized him again. He drank some wine, pushed back his chair, and threw down his table-napkin. “I don't want anything else. I 'm going for a walk. I 'll see you later at the theatre.”