Rebecca’s fingers closed the tighter. Her broad figure seemed to stiffen with an obstinate insolence; her large, florid face was repulsively confident. “Give me that key.” “Sha’n’t.” “You will.” “Master promised it me.” “Don’t lie.” “A liar, am I?” It was done with a quietness that was peculiarly impressive. Joan Gildersedge had advanced with her eyes fixed on the woman’s face. A powerful purpose seemed concentrated in her every movement. She was half a head taller than Rebecca; her strong, white hand fastened on the woman’s wrist. She drew Rebecca’s hand towards her so steadily that an observer would hardly have guessed that the woman’s muscles were rigidly resistant. “Open your hand.” There was a moment’s obstinacy. The white hand tightened; the firm mouth grew a shade paler; the gray eyes outstared the brown. It was a battle of willpower, and the conclusion was inevitable. Rebecca’s fingers unclosed upon the key. “Take it, then.” The two women still eyed each other—the one stern and keen as a white frost, the other florid and furtive, subduedly vindictive. “You’ll tell him?” Joan nodded. “Nice old gentleman, your father, when—” The revulsion was instantaneous. Sudden color surged into the girl’s face; her eyes flamed. Like a figure of divine vengeance she stood as at the gate of Eden, hounding shame into the dark unknown. “Woman—” “Ah!” “You have fouled a home. You are unclean. You go to-night.” A sudden grim sympathy leaped lightning-like from face to face. Rebecca cringed, gave back a step. The gray eyes scathed her with a scorn that stripped her soul naked in the sun. She gave a hoarse cry, cowered back, a woman scourged by a woman’s scorn. “Miss Joan—” “Don’t speak to me.” Rebecca’s hands clutched her bosom. She still retreated, strove to speak, but choked in her throat. Sudden elemental shame had stricken her, shame shining from the divine cleanliness that drove her into the dark. “I’ll go. Don’t jeer; don’t look at me like that. Give me my money.” “Your hire.” The words stung like flame. The woman slunk away like a Judas, crept into the hall silently, stooping and holding her throat. In the shadows she turned with the snarl of a smitten brute. “I’ll pay you for this.” “Go.” The woman disappeared. Joan heard footsteps on the stairs and the slamming of an attic door. She bent over her father’s chair. He was breathing heavily, stertorously, as under the influence of a narcotic or a deadening dose of alcohol. She touched his shoulder, shook him, but he never heeded her. She reknotted the twine about his neck, dropped the key into his bosom, and refastened his shirt.