A burning red had mounted to Karen's wasted cheeks. Her sunken eyes dwelt on Mrs. Talcott with a sort of horror. "It is true," she said. "He may think that; he must think that; because unless he does he cannot divorce me and set himself free, and he must be free, Mrs. Talcott; he has said that he wishes to be free. But I did not run away with Franz. I met him, on the headland, that morning, and he was to take me to his mother, and I was so ill that he brought me here. That was all." Mrs. Talcott smoothed back her hair. "Take it easy, honey," she said. "There's nothing to worry over one mite. And now I've asked my questions and had my answers, and I've got something to tell. Karen, child, it's all been a pack of lies that Mercedes has told so as to get hold of you, and so as he shouldn't--so as your husband shouldn't, Karen. Listen, honey: your husband loves you just for all he's worth. I've seen him. I went up to him. And he told me how you were all the world to him, and how, if only you didn't love this young man and didn't want to be free, he'd do anything to get you back, and how if you'd done the wicked thing he'd been told and then gotten sorry, he'd want you back just the same because you were his dear wife, and the one woman he loved. But he couldn't force himself on you if you loved someone else and hated him. So I just told him that I didn't believe you loved Franz; and I got him to hope it, too, and we came down together, Karen, and Mercedes is like a lion at bay downstairs, and she's in front of that door that leads up here and swears it'll kill you to see us; and I'd seen the ladder leaning on the wall and I just nipped out while she was talking, and brought it round to what I calculated would be your window and climbed up, and that's what I've come to tell you, Karen, that he loves you, and that he's downstairs, and that he's waiting to know whether you'll see him." Mrs. Talcott rose and stood by the bed looking down into Karen's eyes. "Honey, I can bring him up, can't I?" she asked. Karen's eyes looked up at her with an intensity that had passed beyond joy or appeal. Her life was concentrated in her gaze. "You would not lie to me?" she said. "It is not pity? He loves me?" "No, I wouldn't lie to you, dearie," said Mrs. Talcott, with infinite tenderness; "lies ain't my line. It's not pity. He loves you, Karen." "Bring him," Karen whispered. "I have always loved him. Don't let me die before he comes." CHAPTER XLVII Mrs. Talcott, as she descended the staircase, heard in the little sitting-room a voice, the voice of Mercedes, speaking on and on, in a deep-toned, continuous roll of vehement demonstration, passionate protest, subtle threat and pleading. Gregory's voice she did not hear. No doubt he stood where she had left him, at the other side of the table, confronting his antagonist. Mrs. Talcott turned the knob of the door and slightly pushed it. A heavy weight at once was flung against it.