“Yes,” said Jane, in a queer, shy voice. “I couldn’t help hearing. I ran away at once, but I couldn’t help hearing her call him Tony. It’s your cousin, Anthony Luttrell, isn’t it?” “Yes, it’s Tony,” said Henry. “Thank the Lord they’ve met. I’d just left him there after jawing him about seeing Raymond.” “Oh, I hope they’ve made it up,” said Jane. “She looked so dreadfully unhappy last night that I felt I simply couldn’t bear it. It’s so dreadful to see people hurt like that, and not be able to do anything. Do you think they’ll make it up?” “I hope so,” said Henry not very hopefully. “Tony’s a queer sort of fellow, you know—frightfully hard to move, and a perfect devil for hugging a grievance. He’s had a rotten time of it too. What with Raymond marrying some one else, and then getting knocked out himself, and coming round to find himself a prisoner—well, there wasn’t much to take his mind off it. He escaped three times before he actually got away, and then he went to Russia and had the worst time of the lot. So that he’s got a good deal of excuse for sticking to his grouch.” Jane suddenly pinched Henry very hard, put her lips quite close to his ear, and breathed: “Some one’s coming.” As she spoke Henry drew her noiselessly back a yard or two. The faint glow which Jane had seen brightened until it seemed dazzling. The arched entrance to the tunnel in which they stood became sharply defined. The light struck the opposite wall, showing it rough and black, with patches of dull green slime. Instantly Jane felt that her finger-tips would never be clean again. As the thought shuddered through her mind the light went by. That’s what it looked like, the passing of a light. Raymond’s dark figure hardly showed behind it. The lighted archway faded. The darkness spread an even surface over everything again. Jane laid her face against Henry’s sleeve, pressed quite close to him, and said in a little voice that trembled: “Oh, they haven’t made it up—they haven’t. He’d have come with her if they had.” “I’m afraid so.” “Of _course_ he’d have come with her. You wouldn’t have let me go by myself, you know you wouldn’t. No, they haven’t made it up, they can’t have, and—oh, Henry, why do people quarrel like that? You won’t with me, will you—ever? I mean that dreadful world-without-end sort. I couldn’t bear it. You won’t, will you?” Jane was shaking all over. Henry put his arms round her very tight, laid his cheek against hers, and said: “Not much! It’s a mug’s game.” After a little while Jane said: “I must go. You know she came to my room before, and last night when I got back I found the door shut. I had left it open so as not to make any noise, but it was shut when I got back. That frightened me more than anything, but now I think it must have been the wind that shut it. I think so, only I’m not sure. It might have been the wind, or it might have been ... somebody. It’s much more frightening not to be sure. So I’d better go, hadn’t I?”