Yet she was as far as ever from projecting escape. The unjust law was still a law, and irresistible. Had it been her case that she loved some other man, and his return of love claimed her, then indeed she might dare anything and break her chains. But the power of love seemed as dead in her as the passion she had once, and only once, conceived. She was utterly alone. Morning and noon went by. She had exhausted herself with ceaseless movement, and now for two or three hours lay on a couch as if asleep. The fever burned upon her forhead and in her breath. But at length endurance reached its limits. As she lay still, a thought had taken possession of her--at first rejected again and again, but always returning, and with more tempting persistency. She could not begin another night without having spoken to some one. She seemed to have been foresaken for days; there was no knowing how long she might live here in solitude. When it was nearly five o'clock, she went to her bedroom and prepared for going out. When ready, she met the servant who was bringing up tea. "I shall not want it," she said. "And probably I shall not dine at home. Nothing need be prepared." She entered the library, and took up from the writing-table Mallard's note; she looked at the address that was on it. Then she left the house, and summoned the first vacant cab. CHAPTER XIII ONWARD TO THE VAGUE The cab drew up in a quiet road in Chelsea, by a gateway opening into a yard. Cecily alighted and paid the driver. "Be good enough to wait a minute or two," she said. "I may need you again at once. But if I am longer, I shall not be coming." Entering the yard, she came in front of a row of studios; on the door of each was the tenant's name, and she easily discovered that of Ross Mallard. This door was half open; she looked in and saw a flight of stairs. Having ascended these, she came to another door, which was closed. Here her purpose seemed to falter; she looked back, and held her hand for a moment against her cheek. But at length she knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again, more loudly, leaning forward to listen; and this time there came a distant shout for reply. Interpreting it as summons to enter, she turned the handle; the door opened, and she stepped into a little ante-chamber. From a room within came another shout, now intelligible. "Who's there?" She advanced, raised a curtain, and found herself in the studio, but hidden behind some large canvases. There was a sound of some one moving, and when she had taken another step, Mallard himself, pipe in mouth, came face to face with her. With a startled look, he took the pipe from his lips, and stood regarding her; she met his gaze with the same involuntary steadiness. "Are you alone, Mr. Mallard?" fell at length from her. "Yes. Come and sit down."