There was no answer, but the footsteps stopped. They might be walking on the grassy verge, she thought, and, turning, ran up the drive. Whoever followed was running, too. She heard a sibilant whisper and her blood turned cold. Then, as she emerged from the trees, she saw a figure against the gray sheen of the round pound, saw the shape of it--the long habit and the heavy cowl. With a scream she flew. The drive continuing past the window would bring her to Dick’s study. She saw with a gasp of relief that the door was open and a light shining inside. Over her shoulder she saw the queer shape again, and screamed. In an instant Dick was out of the study and had caught her in his arms. He listened to her breathless story, then, almost carrying her to his room, he put her in a chair and ran out into the night. In a few minutes he came back. “I saw nothing,” he said. “It was the Black Abbot, you say?” “I don’t know; something in a cowl and habit: I’m sure of that.” It was a bad introduction to the story she had to tell; indeed, in her terror, she almost forgot the object of her visit. “Did Arthur come with you?” She shook her head. “Dick, I know,” were the first words she said when she had recovered her breath. “You know what?” “About Lady Chelford’s money.” She saw his face change. “Did he tell you?” he asked, the red coming into his face. “Not Arthur, no. It was Gilder.” “Mr. Gilder told you? I knew he had been and I knew he had called. Was that why he came?” She nodded. “For nothing else?” “Yes; he came to offer me the money.” She saw his eyes narrow. “He did? At a price, of course?” She nodded. “And you--what did you say?” She found a difficulty in breathing; speech for the moment was impossible without making a fool of herself. “You agreed?” She nodded again. “I have just posted the letter to him,” she said. She saw him bite his lip and a red spot of blood showed. If he had stormed at her, cursed her, she could have borne it; but he did no more than look at her. There was nothing in his gaze that was uncharitable. “Oh, Dick, Dick!” She was sobbing on his breast and his arms were about her, comforting her. “You can’t do it, my dear. Anything is better than that.” She shook her head, incapable of speech. “I tell you anything is better than that.” His voice was hard, uncompromising. “Better Arthur go down for five years than that you should live in hell all your life! I know that man--I know his kind--it isn’t his years, it’s his mind and his evil heart. If he were twenty I would say, ‘No, you can’t do it, Leslie.’” She pushed herself gently away from him and dried her eyes. “I must, Dick; I have given my word. I cannot trick him. The last thing I said to him was ‘If I tell you I will marry you, you can make the arrangements about the money--I will not fail you.’ I cannot fail him; I cannot fail myself.” His face was drawn and haggard. “This can’t be!” he said. “Something will happen. I don’t know what----”