“I don’t know ... I can’t suddenly believe myself safe after all those years. It is not easy to root out what was planted in childhood and what grew to be part of one during the tender and formative period.... You can’t understand, Mr. Cleves—you can’t ever feel or visualise what became my daily life in a region which was half paradise and half hell——” She bent her head and took her face between her fingers, and sat so, brooding. After a little while: “Well,” he said, “there’s only one way to manage this affair—if you are willing, Miss Norne.” She merely lifted her eyes. “I think,” he said, “there’s only that one way out of it. But you understand”—he turned pink—“it will be quite all right—your liberty—privacy—I shan’t bother you—annoy——” She merely looked at him. “After this Bolshevistic flurry is settled—in a year or two—or three—then you can very easily get your freedom; and you’ll have all life before you” ... he rose: “—and a jolly good friend in me—a good comrade, Miss Norne. And that means you can count on me when you go into business—or whatever you decide to do.” She also had risen, standing slim and calm in her exquisite Chinese robe, the sleeves of which covered her finger tips. “Are you going to marry me?” she asked. “If you’ll let me.” “Yes—I will ... it’s so generous and considerate of you. I—I don’t ask it; I really don’t——” “But _I_ do.” “—And I never dreamed of such a thing.” He forced a smile. “Nor I. It’s rather a crazy thing to do. But I know of no saner alternative.... So we had better get our license to-morrow.... And that settles it.” He turned to go; and, on her threshold, his feet caught in something on the floor and he stumbled, trying to free his feet from a roll of soft white cloth lying there on the carpet. And when he picked it up, it unrolled, and a knife fell out of the folds of cloth and struck his foot. Still perplexed, not comprehending, he stooped to recover the knife. Then, straightening up, he found himself looking into the colourless face of Tressa Norne. “What’s all this?” he asked—“this sheet and knife here on the floor outside your door?” She answered with difficulty: “They have sent you your shroud, I think.” “Are not those things yours? Were they not already here in your baggage?” he demanded incredulously. Then, realising that they had not been there on the door-sill when he entered her room a few moments since, a rough chill passed over him—the icy caress of fear. “Where did that thing come from?” he said hoarsely. “How could it get here when my door is locked and bolted? Unless there’s somebody hidden here!” Hot anger suddenly flooded him; he drew his pistol and sprang into the passageway. “What the devil is all this!” he repeated furiously, flinging open his bedroom door and switching on the light.