Oh, yes; he was quite, quite happy: this was reality: his exquisite Louisa, the outline of her perfect head, the touch of her knee, the scent of sweet peas which intoxicated him and whipped his senses to madness and to dreams. It was reality and the other was only the wild phantasmagoria of a wild imagination--the insane thought born of insane desire. In the darkness which enveloped him and Lou, he could, you see, give free rein to himself. The world was not gaping; conventionality held no sway within these four narrow walls; the puppet could loosen the string which had forced it to dance, it could lie placid for awhile, dead to the world, but enjoying its own existence and its own vitality. And Lou, watching him in that same darkness which concealed him entirely, save to her eyes of watchfulness, believed that he had heard nothing as yet. She vaguely combated the desire to tell him everything then and there, so that he should hear the worst and the best from her lips rather than through indifferent channels later on. But with that subtle perception peculiar to her--the modern, commonplace woman of the world--she divined that he was living for the moment in a world of his own, from which it was sacrilege to try and drag him away. Just then the cab drew up outside the Langham Hotel. The every-day world had returned with its flaring electric lights, its hall porters, its noise and bustle, and chased away the illusions of the past few moments. Luke jumped out, ready to help Lou down--a happy second that, for her hand must needs rest in his. The glare of the electric lamp above fell full on his face, which was serene, placid, the usual mask of supreme indifference: only Louisa read beyond the mask, and as her hand rested in his for just a thought longer than conventionality allowed, she realized that he knew everything: the murder, the horror, and the suspicion which had touched him already with the tip of its sable wing. Her eyes, and the pressure of her hand bade him "good-night" and she passed on into the lighted hall of the hotel. He followed Colonel Harris into the lobby. "You have heard?" he asked quickly and in a whisper, lest Lou should hear. "Yes," replied the other. "And Louisa? Does she know?" "Gossip was all over the confounded place," was Colonel Harris's muttered comment. "But you've heard no details?" "No. Have you?" "Very little. Only what the police officer chose to tell me." "Then," queried the older man, "it's an absolute fact?" "Absolute, unfortunately." "Hm! As to that--have you seen your uncle?" "No. I went round as soon as I knew, but the police had forestalled me and broken the news to him." "But why didn't you see him?" "He sent word that he would rather I come back in the morning. Philip's influence still prevalent, you see."