There was, in the one syllable, so much of terror that his heart shivered; so much of welcome that his heart leaped; so much of joy that his heart sang. Bending, he pressed his lips on her hands, and felt them tremble beneath his kiss. They were withdrawn, and fluttered for the briefest moment, at his temples. Then she spoke, hurriedly and softly. “You must go. At once! At once!” “When I have just found you?” “If you have any care for me—for my happiness—for my good name—go away from this house of dread.” “What?” said Sedgwick sharply. “Of dread? What do you do here, then?” “Suffer,” said she. Then bit her lips. “No! No! I didn’t mean it. It is only that the mystery of it—I am unstrung and weak. To-morrow all will be right. Only go.” “I will,” said Sedgwick firmly. “And you shall go with me.” “I! Where?” He caught her hand again and held it to his heart. “To “‘See the gold air and the silver fade And the last bird fly into the last light’,” he whispered. “Don’t!” she begged. “Not that! It brings back that week too poignantly. Oh, my dear; please, please go.” “Listen,” he said. “Heart of my heart, I don’t know what curse hangs over this house; but this I do know, that I can not leave you here. Come with me now. I will find some place for you to-night, and to-morrow we will be married.” With a sharp movement she shrank back from him. “Married! To-morrow!” The words seemed to choke her. “Don’t you know who I am?” Fear chilled his mounting blood as Kent’s analysis of the probabilities came back to him. “If you are married already,” he said unsteadily, “it—it would be better for me that Kent had let him shoot.” [Illustration: _She sat at the window, bowered in roses._] “Who?” she cried. “What has been passing, here? You have been in danger?” “What does it matter?” he returned. “What does anything matter but—” “Hark!” she broke in, a spasm of terror contracting her face. Footsteps sounded within. There was the noise of a door opening and closing. Around the turn of the wing Alexander Blair stepped into view. His pistol was still in his hand. “Still here, sir?” he inquired with an effect of murderous courtesy. “You add spying to your other practises, then.” He took a step forward and saw the girl. “My God! Marjorie!” he cried. Sedgwick turned white, at the cry, but faced the older man steadily. “I fear, sir,” he said, “that I have made a terrible mistake. The blame is wholly mine. I beg you to believe that I came here wholly without the knowledge of—of your wife—” “Of whom?” exclaimed Blair; and, in the same moment, the girl cried out, “Oh, no, no. Not that!” “Not?” exclaimed Sedgwick. “Then—” “Marjorie,” interrupted Mr. Blair, “do you know this man?” “Yes,” she said quietly. “Since when?” “Since two weeks.” “And he has come here before?” “No.” “Then why do I find him here with you to-night: this night of all nights?” “He is not here with me,” said she, flushing.