Something over a fortnight after the revolver episode and the night together by the open fire, the two unfortunates, caught in the merciless grip of a love trap and struggling with all the strength they could command to extricate themselves from it, had come very close to reaching the limit of what they could do. Was anything else to be expected? Completely out of their normal minds—mad—even quietly delirious—living there together in the same house—left to themselves most of the time, and trying to carry on as if they were casual acquaintances—wouldn’t that wear out the strength of anyone, or, to be more accurate, any two? Haworth, one day along this time, came in from a tramp at dinner time and learned from Hulda that Mr. Findlay hadn’t come in. He and Edith would be alone together. It had happened several times lately, but to-night he had the feeling that he couldn’t manage to behave as an ordinary friend might; he didn’t think he could carry it through. “When Mrs. Findlay comes down, ask her please to have dinner without me. I’ve got some important work to do—very important.” When Hulda went into the hall she saw Edith near the top of the stairs and going up. She had come down and stopped near the door as she heard Haworth speaking, and couldn’t help hearing what he said. Upon which she fled up the stairs again, and a moment after the maid had caught sight of her she was back in her room with the door closed. Hulda followed and knocked softly. “Can’t I bring you up something, Mrs. Findlay?” “No, nothing—_please_.” Hulda left a tray on Haworth’s drawing table, before which he was sitting absently. But she knew, as soon as she saw him, that he wouldn’t touch anything. It was a wicked evening for them both. Haworth sat in a corner of his workroom and stared before him, seeing nothing. Edith lay on her bed with her head pushed in among the pillows. With her it was simpler—just plain misery, and longing, and hunger and thirst for him. But Haworth, while having all these feelings for her, was at the same time feverishly hunting for some way out, all the while knowing that nothing could be done without money, of which he was by this time nearly destitute. If he had had the means at hand, there isn’t the slightest doubt he’d have fled with her. But he hadn’t nearly enough for that, nor had he anything on which he could raise it. The amount that old Mr. Cripps had left to him (being probably the remains of the money obtained on the mortgage) had virtually disappeared. Haworth wasn’t in the habit of thinking of these things; he’d always let them go until something happened. For himself what did it matter? But now ... Edith. And he went over the problem again and again, hoping each time to arrive at a better result. It was very much later in the evening when Hulda came down and tapped at his door. After she had knocked three times he heard her. “Come in,” he said, huskily.