“I’ve been trying for days, ever since I came here. And you keep avoiding me, always having some one with you. Now we’ll be going to-morrow, we may not have another chance, and I must see you and tell you”--he stopped and looked at the gallery. “Did I hear a step up there?” She had heard nothing and thought it odd that he should be so suddenly cautious. Discretion had been the last quality he had heretofore shown. “I _have_ avoided you and I’m going to continue doing it. Please move away from the door. It’s silly to stand in front of it for I can go round by the garden, but I’m tired and I don’t want to.” He came forward, speaking as he advanced. “This isn’t what you think. I’m done with that. You’ve made me understand, you’ve got it across, Sybil. I’m not going to bother you any more with that subject you loathe and think so dreadful. But I can’t help loving you and wanting to help you.” She gave an exasperated gesture and made a move to pass him. As she did so, he said: “I’ve heard something of Jim Dallas.” She stopped as if all animating force had been stricken out of her, a “What?” expelled on a caught breath. “Just before I left town I met an actor who says he saw him.” “Are you telling me the truth?” “Why should I lie? What do I gain by it? I swore the fellow to secrecy and came up here to tell you and I’ve been trying----” She broke in: “Was he sure? Where was it?” The change in her manner would have crushed the hope in any man. Shunning him like a leper, she now drew close and laid her hand on his arm. “I can’t tell you here. It’s too dangerous, too many people coming and going.” “It _was_ Jim?” “It _was_. It’s quite a story, more than just seeing him. But we’ve got to get somewhere away from all these damned doors----” One of them opened--that into the hall behind them. They heard it and wheeled round, faces sharp-set in defensive interrogation. It was Flora Stokes. She rested on the threshold looking at them, and Stokes, his senses more alert than the girl’s, withdrew his arm from her clasp. “Oh, Flora,” he said, his voice supremely light and easy. “Were you looking for me?” Mrs. Stokes said no, she had come to put her book back. She walked slowly to a table and placed her book on the corner. The room was very still as she did this. Stokes, his hands deep in his pockets, moved his head, following her progress as if it roused his curiosity. The girl stood without a sound, the scene passing under her eyes with a mirage-like unreality. “It seems I’ve intruded,” said Mrs. Stokes, each syllable meticulously clear and precise. “But if you want to be alone I should think you’d have chosen another place.” “Having chosen this is a pretty good proof we didn’t want to be alone,” retorted her husband. She gave a light jeering sound of disbelief and walked to the entrance. On the sill she turned and looked at them with smoldering eyes: