Three o’clock came and went, and still the young man slept. The other sat and studied him, noting how slight and elegant was his form, how fine the hands and feet, how daintily he was dressed and cared for. John was stout and heavy, a man of delf, and the size of his boots had once provoked from Lawrence a very provoking quotation: “What dread hand formed thy dread feet?” and more than once the young man had mockingly pushed his two white hands into one of John’s gloves. This sleeper’s hair was glossy, scented, as soft as floss, and curled in many a wilful ring; John’s was coarse and straight, and he wisely wore it closely cropped. Lawrence Gerald’s face was delicately smooth; the lines melted harmoniously into each other; his brows were finely drawn; the teeth, that showed through his parted lips, were pearly white; and as he lay with closed eyes, the lashes made two exquisitely curved shadows on his cheeks. John’s face was plain, he had no eyebrows nor eyelashes to speak of, his eyes were more for use than ornament, and his nose went about its business straight from end to end, stopping rather bluntly, and utterly ignoring that delicate curve which made this man’s profile so perfect. This man? This drunkard, rather, John thought; this spendthrift, and gambler, and robber. This murderer! The nerves of the serving‐man stiffened; and if he had felt any relenting, it was over. The insolent daintiness before him stirred all his bitterness. It was for such men as this that humbler honest folks were to bow and serve, and women’s hearts to break! It must be nearly four o’clock, he thought, and glanced round at the clock. Looking back again, he met Lawrence Gerald’s eyes fixed on him steadily, and he returned the look with as immovable a stare. In that instant the meaning of each leaped out of his face as clearly as lightning from a cloud. Young Gerald’s eyes began to shrink in their depths, and still the other held them; he drew slowly back on the sofa, cowering, but unable to turn away. And here John’s eyes released him, for another object drew them up to the mirror that hung over the sofa. Reflected there he saw that the door was partly open, and Annette Gerald’s white face looking in. She came swiftly gliding toward them, silent as a ghost, and melted, rather than fell, on to her knees before her husband, between him and the other. Her arms and bosom hid him from that relentless gaze which told that all was known, and her own face turned and received it instead, firmly and almost defiantly. “Well, John?” she said. “Speak out what you have to say.” “This can’t go on any longer, ma’am,” he whispered; “and I should think you would have the sense to see that. If you’re willing to let an innocent man suffer for him, even that won’t serve you long, for he will betray himself yet. You must go.” “Yes, yes, we will go!” she replied hurriedly. “It is the only thing to do. We will go right away.”