Wyant had looked up, wondering if Miss Lombard would show any surprise at being locked in with him; but it was his turn to be surprised, for hardly had they heard the key withdrawn when she moved close to him, her small face pale and tumultuous. “I arranged it--I must speak to you,” she gasped. “He’ll be back in five minutes.” Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly. Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about him at the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the strange picture overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl whispering of conspiracies in a voice meant to exchange platitudes with a curate. “How can I help you?” he said with a rush of compassion. “Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; it’s so difficult--he watches me--he’ll be back immediately.” “Try to tell me what I can do.” “I don’t dare; I feel as if he were behind me.” She turned away, fixing her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. “There he comes, and I haven’t spoken! It was my only chance; but it bewilders me so to be hurried.” “I don’t hear any one,” said Wyant, listening. “Try to tell me.” “How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain.” She drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge--“Will you come here again this afternoon--at about five?” she whispered. “Come here again?” “Yes--you can ask to see the picture,--make some excuse. He will come with you, of course; I will open the door for you--and--and lock you both in”--she gasped. “Lock us in?” “You see? You understand? It’s the only way for me to leave the house--if I am ever to do it”--She drew another difficult breath. “The key will be returned--by a safe person--in half an hour,--perhaps sooner--” She trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against the settle for support. “Wyant looked at her steadily; he was very sorry for her. “I can’t, Miss Lombard,” he said at length. “You can’t?” “I’m sorry; I must seem cruel; but consider--” He was stopped by the futility of the word: as well ask a hunted rabbit to pause in its dash for a hole! Wyant took her hand; it was cold and nerveless. “I will serve you in any way I can; but you must see that this way is impossible. Can’t I talk to you again? Perhaps--” “Oh,” she cried, starting up, “there he comes!” Doctor Lombard’s step sounded in the passage. Wyant held her fast. “Tell me one thing: he won’t let you sell the picture?” “No--hush!” “Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that.” “The future?” “In case he should die: your father is an old man. You haven’t promised?” She shook her head. “Don’t, then; remember that.” She made no answer, and the key turned in the lock.