They were by this time in the little drawing-room; and as yet Anthony had done nothing save stare with all his eyes. She finished speaking, and he realized that he must say something. But what? He wanted to shout to Heaven that he hadn’t seen her for hours longer than years. He wanted to catch her hands—those long, slim hands—and cover them with kisses. He wanted to tell her that she was most glorious of women and he the vainglorious fool who dared to love her. He wanted—oh, what did he not want? He said: “Er—good evening. Hastings out?” She opened her eyes at him. “But—but, Mr. Gethryn, I’ve just told you that Mr. Hastings is at his office!” “Of course. Ah, yes,” said Anthony. “Did you want to see him?” Anthony recovered himself; remembered that he had work to do, and that by attending to it he could save himself from behaving foolishly. “No,” he said shortly. “Mrs. Lemesurier, I must see your brother.” It was, he thinks now, the great fatigue which had accumulated during the past days and the strain of that flying drive which led him to speak with such curtness. “To see Jim? Oh, but you can’t,” Lucia said. Her tone was gentle and rather aloof and very firm. “Oh, but I must,” Anthony said. His loss of temper is regrettable, and was inexplicable to himself even at the time. The dark eyes blazed at him. “You can’t,” she said. Anthony said with brutal clearness: “Mrs. Lemesurier, I am, as best I know how, trying to clear of the charge of murder a man I believe innocent. I’ve got to a point where a five minutes’ conversation with your brother will help me. Your brother—you have told me yourself—cannot be considered as seriously ill. I must see him.” This time it was her eyes that fell. Anthony was angry—with himself. And a man angry with himself is invincible. With a grace that burned a picture into his mind she crossed the room, to stand with her back to the door. Anthony picked his hat from the table and walked slowly towards her, smiling as he walked. It was not a nice smile. It was a smile which crept up on one side of his face and stopped before it reached his eyes. A black smile. There are men in odd corners of the world who would counsel, out of personal experience, that when one sees that smile one had better get out. He came close to her, still smiling. For a moment she faced him; then faltered; then stood to one side and let him pass. He closed the door softly behind him and began his search for the sick-room. He found it at once. He entered, closing this door even more softly. A shaded lamp arranged to leave the bed in shadow was the only light. In the bed lay a man. Peering at his face, Anthony could trace a certain faint resemblance. He sat on the chair by the bed and waited. “What the devil are you?” said a weak voice. Clearly, but with rapidity, Anthony explained his presence.