She broke in upon him desperately, for the need was great. “He has done me no harm. Let him go! You must—you must let him go.” “Why?” he said. “Because I ask you—I beg you—because—because—” She halted, frantically searching for adequate words. “Oh, wait!” she besought him. “Wait!” His eyes regarded her immovably. “For your sake?” he said at last. She wrung her hands together. “Yes—yes!” He got slowly to his feet. “For your sake then!” he said. “Now tell me—what you are doing here? And why did you cry out just now when I rang the bell?” His manner was absolutely quiet, but there was that in his look that warned her that the danger was not past. She did not dare to tell him the truth. “I cried out,” she said, “because—I was startled. I hid in this room for the same reason.” “And—you came here—for what?” he said. She glanced away to the spread table, for she could not meet his eyes. “We had been to the theatre. I came in—for supper.” “And he has behaved towards you absolutely as a gentleman should?” he questioned, in the same level voice that made her think of a weapon poised for striking. “Yes—oh, yes!” she answered. He was silent for a moment or two, and she knew that his look searched her unsparingly. Then: “I don’t believe you are telling me the truth,” he said. “But I shall soon know.” He turned abruptly to the man on the floor. “Get up!” he said. Rotherby had drawn his hands over his face. He rolled on to his side as the curt command reached him, and in a few seconds, grabbing at a chair, he dragged himself to his feet. But his face was ashen and he could not stand. He dropped into the chair with a groan. Frances went to the washing-stand, squeezed out a sponge in cold water and brought it to him. He took it in a dazed fashion and mopped the blood from his nose and mouth. Arthur stood by, massive and motionless, his face set in iron lines. He was like an executioner, grim as doom, waiting for his victim. He made no comment when Frances brought towel and basin to Rotherby’s side and helped him. But at length, as Rotherby began to show signs of recovery, he waved her to one side. “Now, you! Let’s have your version! What are you and Miss Thorold doing here?” Rotherby looked at him through narrowed lids. His face was very evil as he made reply. “I chance to live here.” “I know that. And you’ll die here without any chance about it if you don’t choose to give me a straight answer to my questions. What did you bring her here for?” “What the devil is that to you?” said Rotherby sullenly. “You go to hell!” Though he was beaten so that he could hardly lift his head, he showed no fear, and for that Frances, who knew something of the temperament of the man who had beaten him, accorded him a certain admiration. To be punished as he had been punished, and yet to refuse submission proved a strength with which she had hardly credited him.