'Nor I,' said Dan Fitzgerald, then paused, and rising from his chair crossed to the open door, whence he looked out, as Rose had done, beyond the rain lilies to the mist. 'I know better than any of you what poor George was; I know better than any of you what he did. If this is settled, I, too, will have to tell something to his credit; something that will make inquiry the better for him. Yet I'd give all I possess to save the necessity for it. But I'm lost,'--he stretched his hands out impulsively into the mist--'lost, as one might be out yonder--lost, as the lad's own explanation is lost in the mystery of death. It's hard to say so, George, but I can't help it.' He spoke as if to some one out of sight, and Gwen Boynton sate up suddenly, nervously, with a scared look in her eyes. 'I think you are all wrong,' she said querulously. 'The woman must know that proof is against her story; but you will not believe it, and so I cannot help it. I cannot, indeed.' Her voice died away to a sort of sigh, and she sank back again, clasping her hands tightly together. Rose let hers fall from its grip on the mantel-shelf. Dan's tall figure leant more loosely against the lintel, and Lewis Gordon mechanically turned the pages of a book lying beside him on the table. The tension was over, and the relief of decision, even of helpless decision, held them silent in the silence for the moment. They had done their best. They had played their part in the strange play. Then suddenly out of the mist came a quavering, chanting voice-- 'It was a woman seeking something Through day and night----' 'Listen!' cried Dan, his face ablaze. Rose's hand went up again to the picture hurriedly, and Lewis started to his feet; only Gwen looked from one to the other bewildered: 'O'er hill and dale seeking for something.' The voice grew clearer as if the singer was toiling up the unseen path below the lilies. 'Foul play! foul play!--look down and decide.' 'The mad potter!' cried Dan, with wonder in his tone. 'Azîzan! it is her turn at last,' cried Rose, with a hush in hers, which sent a thrill through Lewis Gordon--though he only said prosaically-- 'I'll go and see who it is.' But Dan had forestalled the thought, and, vaulting the railings, had disappeared into the mist, whence they could hear him hallooing down the path to the unseen singer as they stood waiting by the lilies. Then came a quick greeting, a low reply, and so, clearer and clearer--though they could see nothing--every syllable of eager questioning and slow answer until, as if from behind a veil, the strange couple stepped into sight--Dan, eager, excited, towering above the bent, deprecating figure of the old potter. They had heard so much, those three in the verandah, that Rose without a pause could step forward and strike at the very root of the matter with the question, 'What is it? What is it that you want of me?'