His wife's hand went out to him involuntarily. He looked at it for a second, then into her eyes, waveringly, uncertain as to the impulse that moved her. He suddenly regained control of himself. He grasped the slender hand in his great, crushing fingers; the sullen, repellent glare leaped back into his eyes; alert and shifty, he held up his free hand to command the silence of David. Then, like a hunted creature at bay, he glanced over his shoulder. Seeing an open door almost at his elbow, he resolutely drew his wife after him into the room beyond. As he turned to slam the door with vicious energy, the tense, incisive voice called out once more from the head of the stairs: "Father!" The door banged as if propelled by the added energy of sudden fear. An instant later, David was dashing up the stairs, three steps at a time. She had started down. He met her at the bend. "Not just now, dearest," he cried. "Wait! He wants to see your mother first." She clutched the rail, putting one hand out as if to ward him off. The dread in her eyes went straight to his heart. Her lips were stiff, her voice was low with anxiety. "Is--is she safe, David,--is he himself? Oh, I must go down there. I know I can reason--" He stopped her gently. "Please, Christine," he commanded. She suddenly put her hands to his face, and looked into his eyes. "If anything were to happen to her," she whispered in agony, "I would--" "She is perfectly safe," he broke in. "Your father will not mistreat her." He clasped her hands and held them to his breast. "My poor darling!" Her head dropped, her lip quivered. Then she quietly withdrew her hands and sank to a sitting posture on the step, leaning her head wearily against the banister. Ruby Noakes, a discarded wet towel in her hand, came into the hallway above them. She saw them, hesitated for a moment, and then quietly returned to Christine's bed-chamber. David dropped to his sweetheart's side. His arm fell about her shoulders. She did not offer to remove it, but sat listless, unresponsive, her eyes lifted to a narrow window beyond which the hot sky gleamed. He began by whispering words of encouragement and sympathy, his soul in every syllable. She was so quiet, so hurt, so forlorn; never had she been so precious to him as now. "David," she interrupted, closing her eyes as if through faintness, "it is so good of you to say these things to me, but--but--oh, can't you see how impossible it is now? Don't stay here! Go away, David. Do you think that I can marry you now? It was bad enough before--but now! What am I that you should take me to be your wife! You must go away and forget--" Her drew her head to his breast, smothering the heartbroken cry by the fierceness of his embrace.