wish Bethany was here now to dispute it!’ He stirred himself down, as it were, into his clothes, and stood in the middle of the hearthrug, gently oscillating, with his hands behind his back. But at some faint rumour out of the silent house his posture suddenly stiffened, and he lifted a little, with heavy, steady lids, his head. ‘What is the matter, Danton?’ said Mr Craik in a small voice; ‘why are you listening?’ ‘I wasn’t listening,’ said Danton stoutly, ‘I was thinking.’ At the same moment, at the creak of a footstep on the kitchen stairs, Lawford also had drawn soundlessly back into the darkness of the empty drawing-room. ‘While Mr Danton is “thinking,” Sheila,’ Mrs Lovat was softly interposing, ‘do please listen a moment to _me_. Do you mean really that that Frenchman—the one you’ve pocketed—is the poor creature in the grave?’ ‘Yes, Mrs Lawford,’ said Mr Craik, putting out his face a little, ‘are we to take it that you mean that?’ ‘It’s the same date, dear, the same name even to the spelling; what possibly else can I think?’ ‘And that the poor creature in the grave actually climbed up out of the darkness and—well, what?’ ‘I know no more than you do _now_, Bettie. But the two faces—you must remember you haven’t seen my husband _since_.’ You must remember you haven’t heard the peculiar—the most peculiar things he—Arthur himself—has said to me. Things such as a wife... And not in jest, Bettie; I assure you....’ ‘And Mr Bethany?’ interpolated Mr Craik modestly, feeling his way. ‘Pah, Bethany, Craik! He’d back Old Nick himself if he came with a good tale. We’ve got to act; we’ve got to settle his hash before he does any mischief.’ ‘Well,’ began Mrs Lovat, smiling a little remorsefully beneath the arch of her raised eyebrows, ‘I sincerely hope you’ll all forgive me; but I really am, heart and soul, with Old Nick, as Mr Danton seems on intimate terms enough to call him. Dead, he is really immensely alluring; and alive, I think, awfully—just awfully pitiful and—and pathetic. But if I know anything of Arthur he won’t be beaten by a Frenchman. As for just the portrait, I think, do you know, I almost prefer dark men’—she glanced up at the face immediately in front of the clock—‘at least,’ she added softly, ‘when they are not looking very vindictive. I suppose people are fairly often possessed, Mr Craik? _How_ many “deadly sins” are there?’