A handsome mahogany desk stood open in a broad space by the window. She was attracted by a little painted miniature of a woman. She took it up and studied the face. It was fine and sweet, with brown hair dressed low, and eyes that reminded her of the man who had just gone from her. Was this, then, the home of some relative with whom he had come to stop for a day or two, and, if so, where was the relative? The dress in the miniature was of a quarter of a century past, yet the face was young and sweet, as young, perhaps, as herself. She wondered who it was. She put the miniature back in place with caressing hand. She felt that she would like to know this woman with the tender eyes. She wished her here now, that she might tell her all her anxiety. Her eye wandered to the pile of letters, some of them official-looking ones, one or two in square, perfumed envelopes, with high, angular writing. They were all addressed to Mr. Cyril Gordon. That was strange! Who was Mr. Cyril Gordon? What had they--what had she--to do with him? Was he a friend whom George--whom they--were visiting for a few days? It was all bewildering. Then the telephone rang. Her heart beat wildly and she looked toward it as if it had been a human voice speaking and she had no power to answer. What should she do now? Should she answer? Or should she wait for the man to come? Could the man hear the telephone bell or was she perhaps expected to answer? And yet if Mr. Cyril Gordon--well, somebody ought to answer. The ’phone rang insistently once more, and still a third time. What if _he_ should be calling her! Perhaps he was in distress. This thought sent her flying to the ’phone. She took down the receiver and called: “Hello!” and her voice sounded far away to herself. “Is this Mr. Gordon’s apartment?” “Yes,” she answered, for her eyes were resting on the pile of letters close at hand. “Is Mr. Gordon there?” “No, he is not,” she answered, growing more confident now and almost wishing she had not presumed to answer a stranger’s ’phone. “Why, I just ’phoned to the office and they told me he had returned,” said a voice that had an imperious note in it. “Are you sure he isn’t there?” “Quite sure,” she replied. “Who is this, please?” “I beg your pardon,” said Celia trying to make time and knowing not how to reply. She was not any longer Miss Hathaway. Who was she? Mrs. Hayne? She shrank from the name. It was filled with horror for her. “Who is this, I said,” snapped the other voice now. “Is this the chambermaid? Because if it is I’d like you to look around and inquire and be quite sure that Mr. Gordon isn’t there. I wish to speak with him about something very important.” Celia smiled. “No, this is not the chambermaid,” she said sweetly, “and I am quite sure Mr. Gordon is not here.” “How long before he will be there?” “I don’t know really, for I have but just come myself.” “Who is this to whom I am talking?”