She straightened up from her search among the things on the chair and looked at him for a second; then: “Are you coming too?” “Oh yes!” “Oh!—Then I’ll be down in just a minute!” He reached in and snapped the light on for her, closed the door, and went downstairs. After putting on the clothes he had caught up while leaving his room, he built a huge fire in the fireplace of the living room. Edith came before he’d quite finished, and he pushed the big chair around in front of the fire for her, and another for himself as near to it as its bloated old upholstery would allow. There was only firelight in the room, and the two were there in it without a thought of anything but that they were there—together. Haworth had her dear, precious, exquisite hands in his (I’m quoting from his thoughts) and when she fell asleep her head rested on his shoulder. Never had he imagined that such a miraculous night was within the reach of members of the human race—nor, indeed, had she. * * * * * Of course, they knew now. Perhaps not the strength of the current that was whirling them along, perhaps not precisely how far they’d already been carried by it, but enough. And the first idea in the minds of both Edith and Haworth when they came to think it over by daylight was to resist, to attempt to get out of the rapids. With one accord and no words spoken they set to work on the following morning with the brave idea of behaving as though they were merely casual acquaintances, and not, as was the actual state of things, the custodians of each other’s lives. And they succeeded fairly well in acting this deceitful drama whenever they chanced to meet—which was necessarily quite often—and gave their performance as relentlessly when no audience was there to see, as they did in the presence of spectators. Moreover, they really tried, both of them, to avoid meeting. There was no attempted coldness; their relationship would have seemed to an observer to be of agreeable friendliness, nothing more. And, as it happened, there _was_ an observer——and not only that, but a close and eager one. When Haworth went in to say a few words to Findlay the morning after the latter’s revolver had been taken from him and flung through the window, he found the fellow silent and sullen. His ideas as to what had occurred during the night were hazy in the extreme, but these few quiet words from Haworth cleared his atmosphere in the space of a few seconds, and put him in the way of distinct realization of where he stood. He had threatened his wife with a gun (he remembered having intended to do so) and the weapon had been taken from him. He had been locked in his room (he was already aware of this from having made efforts to get out) and as the Haworth fellow gave it to him, not only was Mrs. Findlay to have a separate sleeping room, but she was to occupy it without interference or disturbance from him.