And there were yellow spotted palms in pots, wrapped, like a face distraught with toothache, in smothering cloths of bilious yellow and of shrieking green. “Not a bad house, is it?” said Vernon once more, when we had partially explored it. By the words, by his manner, I was made at once to realise that from this moment he intended to keep me out of his confidence. Why this was so I could only try to surmise. As to action, all I could do was to accept the situation and follow him in travesty with as good a grace as possible. It was evident that Vernon’s suspicions of my good faith had been aroused by my unexpected visit, following so immediately upon Deeming’s announcement of the taking of the house, and that he had resolved to show me that he would not permit any criticism, even any discussion of his doings, however strange, however hostile to Deeming they must seem to me in the light of recent events. “Not at all bad,” I answered. We were standing at the moment in the terrible double drawing-room. I carefully abstained from looking round. There was an instant of, to me, rather embarrassing silence. Then Vernon said— “Well, shall we go out together? It’s getting rather late. You hadn’t anything special to say to me, I suppose?” “No, nothing. I just called at the hotel, and thought, as you were out, I might find you examining your new abode.” Even as I spoke I involuntarily shuddered; I thought at the idea of Vernon living in this house, this inmost sanctuary of Philistinism. “Why did you do that?” he said sharply. “What?” “Shiver like that. Did you—did you hear anything?” His eyes searched mine; and once more I saw the fierce light in them. “Hear? No. What should I hear?” He did not answer; but continued to stare at me as if he doubted my words. Then he said abruptly: “Let us be off, then.” We descended the stairs and let ourselves out into the darkness and the rain. As we passed Deeming’s house I seemed once more to hear the shrill whimper of a dog. I wondered if Vernon had heard it too, for he hesitated by the step of the door, almost as if he thought of mounting it, and glanced swiftly down to the area, from which still shone the ray of light. But he said nothing, and we walked on, and were soon in the bustle of Oxford Street. V After seeing Vernon that evening in No. 301, Wimpole Street, I knew two things for certain. One was that he had taken the house in order to be next door to Deeming; the other, that whatever project he might have formed, whatever intention or desire was driving him on into a strange path, he did not mean me to know of it through him. I was to be shut out from his confidence.