“Good morning, Mrs. Unthank,” he said. She ignored the greeting. “I am the bearer of a message,” she announced. “Pray deliver it,” Dominey replied. “Her ladyship would be glad for you to visit her in her apartment at once.” Dominey leaned back in his chair. His eyes were fixed upon the face of the woman whose antagonism to himself was so apparent. She stood in the path of a long gleam of morning sunlight. The wrinkles in her face, her hard mouth, her cold, steely eyes were all clearly revealed. “I am not at all sure,” he said, with a purpose in the words, “that any further meeting between Lady Dominey and myself is at present desirable.” If he had thought to disturb this messenger by his suggestion, he was disappointed. “Her ladyship desires me to assure you,” she added, with a note of contempt in her tone, “that you need be under no apprehension.” Dominey admitted defeat and poured himself out some more coffee. Neither of the two noticed that his fingers were trembling. “Her ladyship is very considerate,” he said. “Kindly say that I shall follow you in a few minutes.” Dominey, following within a very few minutes of his summons, was ushered into an apartment large and sombrely elegant, an apartment of faded white and gold walls, of chandeliers glittering with lustres, of Louise Quinze furniture, shabby but priceless. To his surprise, although he scarcely noticed it at the time, Mrs. Unthank promptly disappeared. He was from the first left alone with the woman whom he had come to visit. She was sitting up on her couch and watching his approach. A woman? Surely only a child, with pale cheeks, large, anxious eyes, and masses of brown hair brushed back from her forehead. After all, was he indeed a strong man, vowed to great things? There was a queer feeling in his throat, almost a mist before his eyes. She seemed so fragile, so utterly, sweetly pathetic. And all the time there was the strange light, or was it want of light, in those haunting eyes. His speech of greeting was never spoken. “So you have come to see me, Everard,” she said, in a broken tone. “You are very brave.” He possessed himself of her hand, the hand which a few hours ago had held a dagger to his throat, and kissed the waxenlike fingers. It fell to her side like a lifeless thing. Then she raised it and began rubbing softly at the place where his lips had fallen. “I have come to see you at your bidding,” he replied, “and for my pleasure.” “Pleasure!” she murmured, with a ghastly little smile. “You have learnt to control your words, Everard. You have slept here and you live. I have broken my word. I wonder why?” “Because,” he pleaded, “I have not deserved that you should seek my life.” “That sounds strangely,” she reflected. “Doesn't it say somewhere in the Bible--'A life for a life'? You killed Roger Unthank.” “I have killed other men since in self-defence,” Dominey told her. “Sometimes it comes to a man that he must slay or be slain. It was Roger Unthank--”