Luke was sitting at a desk, writing, when Louisa entered his room. Only one lamp shaded with yellow silk hung above the desk, throwing golden light on paper and blotting pad and on the hand which held the pen. When Luke turned at the sound of the opening door his face remained in deep shadow. He could not of course see her distinctly, as her figure was silhouetted against the light in the passage behind her; that was no doubt the reason why he did not rise to greet her when she entered, but remained seated at his desk. "May I come in, Luke?" she asked. "Certainly," he replied. "I was just writing to you." "Then give me your unfinished letter, and tell me what else you were going to write." "Oh! I had only got as far as your name," he said, pointing to the empty page before him. "Was it so difficult then," she asked, "to tell me everything?" She had come forward into the room, and stood beside his desk, one hand resting upon it, her face looking down at the letter which he had not yet begun to write. He still made no attempt to rise, for now her face was in full golden light, and he could see its every feature. "It is so difficult," he said, "not to write drivel when one is saying good-bye." "You are going away?" she asked. "Yes." "To-night?" "In half an hour." "You are going abroad?" "Certainly." "Why?" This last question came abruptly, in harsh, trenchant tones, altogether different to those of her smooth contralto voice. He turned his eyes away from her face, and looked down at his own hands, which were clasped in front of him. "Because," he replied without the slightest hesitation, "I cannot face what lies before me if I remain." "Why not?" "For many reasons. There's Uncle Rad to consider first and foremost, then Edie, and Jim, and Frank." "What have they to do with it?" "Everything. After the evidence at the inquest to-day a warrant will be out for my arrest within the next few hours." "What of it?" "The evidence against me is overwhelming. I should be tried, perhaps hanged, for murder, at best sent to penal servitude for life. I cannot chance that. I must think of Uncle Rad, of Edie, of Jim and of Frank." "You have yourself to think of first and foremost." "Well," he retorted simply, "I have thought of myself, and I do not see how with my own dagger-stick brought up in evidence against me, and my ill-feeling toward--toward the dead man so well-known, I can possibly escape condemnation."