The old man turned towards her with a fond smile. “My dear,” he said, “any pretext is welcome that brings you to my side.” Frances got up, thankful for the interruption. “I will go to the kitchen if I may,” she said. “Maggie is there.” “We need not drive you away,” protested Mr. Dermot. But she was already at the door. “Perhaps—later,” she said, and was gone before he could say any more. The closing of the door behind her gave her a sense of escape from something terrible which she told herself was utterly unreasonable. CHAPTER VI THE CHAIN The kitchen-door was half-open. She pushed it open and entered. Then sharply she drew back. It was raining and the place was in semi-darkness. Only a red glow from the great open fireplace lighted it, throwing into strong relief the old black rafters. And in this glow, seated at the table facing her, but with his head upon his hands, was a man. He did not stir at her entrance. It was evident he did not hear her, and for a moment her impulse was to go as suddenly and silently as she had come. But something in that bowed silvered head checked her. She stood still, and in a second a whine of greeting from under the table betrayed her. Arthur sat upright with a jerk, and Roger came smiling out from his place at his master’s feet to welcome her. It was Roger who saved the situation. She stooped to fondle him, and in so doing recovered her self-possession. Standing up again, she found that Arthur also was on his feet. They faced each other once more in the firelight, and the beating of the rain upon the thick laurel bushes outside mingled with the dirge-like monotony of the dripping eaves filled in that poignant pause. Arthur spoke, his voice low and constrained. “Come and sit down! I’m just going.” The awful pallor of his face, the misery of the eyes that avoided hers, went straight to her heart. She moved forward, urged by the instinct to help, forgetful of everything else in the rush of pity that surged through her. “Don’t go because I am here!” she said. He had turned already to the outer door. He paused with his back to her, and took up his cap from a chair. “It was not my fault you were sent for,” he said. “It was done against my wish—without my knowledge.” The words were curt, emotionless. Why did she feel as though she were in the presence of a sorely-wounded animal? “Don’t go!” she said again, and somehow the words seemed to utter themselves; she was not conscious of any effort of her own by which they were spoken. “There is no need for you to go.” “No need!” He still stood with his back to her. His hand was on the door, but he did not go. “Did you say that?” he said, after a moment. “Yes.” She came forward slowly, and still it did not seem to be of her own volition that she moved or spoke. “I haven’t come back to make trouble—only to try and help—if I can.”