“A lady has arrived in a cab from Truro, sir,” he announced. “She wishes to see you as soon as convenient.” A sudden light flashed across Wingrave’s face, dying out again almost immediately. “Who is she, Morrison?” he asked. The man glanced at Mr. Pengarth. “She did not give her name, sir.” Mr. Pengarth and Wingrave both rose. The former at once made his adieux and took a short cut to the stables. Wingrave, who leaned heavily upon his stick, clutched Morrison by the arm. “Who is it, Morrison?” he demanded. “It is Lady Ruth Barrington, sir,” the man answered. “Alone?” “Quite alone, sir.” FOR PITY’S SAKE The library at Tredowen was a room of irregular shape, full of angles and recesses lined with bookcases. It was in one of these, standing motionless before a small marble statue of some forgotten Greek poet, that Wingrave found his visitor. She wore a plain serge traveling dress, and the pallor of her face, from which she had just lifted a voluminous veil, matched almost in color the gleaming white marble upon which she was gazing. But when she saw Wingrave, leaning upon his stick, and regarding her with stern surprise, strange lights seemed to flash in her eyes. There was no longer any resemblance between the pallor of her cheeks and the pallor of the statue. “Lady Ruth,” Wingrave said quietly, “I do not understand what has procured for me the pleasure of this unexpected visit.” She swayed a little towards him. Her head was thrown back, all the silent passion of the inexpressible, the hidden secondary forces of nature, was blazing out of her eyes, pleading with him in the broken music of her tone. “You do not understand,” she repeated. “Ah, no! But can I make you understand? Will you listen to me for once as a human being? Will you remember that you are a man, and I a woman pleading for a little mercy--a little kindness?” Wingrave moved a step further back. “Permit me,” he said, “to offer you a chair.” She sank into it--speechless for a moment. Wingrave stood over her, leaning slightly against the corner of the bookcase. “I trust,” he said, “that you will explain what all this means. If it is my help which you require--” Her hands flashed out towards him--a gesture almost of horror. “Don’t,” she begged, “you know that it is not that! You know very well that it is not. Why do you torture me?” “I can only ask you,” he said, “to explain.” She commenced talking quickly. Her sentences came in little gasps. “You wanted revenge--not in the ordinary way. You had brooded over it too long. You understood too well. Once it was I who sought to revenge myself on you because you would not listen to me! You hurt my pride. Everything that was evil in me rebelled--”