He waited, hoping against hope, for a word revoking his sentence. None came. The steel sinew that ran through him, and was answerable for all his accomplishment, stiffened. He would make no appeal _ad misericordiam_. He had suffered enough in expiation. He had come to the end of his tether. For pity masking the last year’s hatred and contempt he had no use. He opened the gate for her. She passed in and he closed it and the click of the latch sounded like the crack of finality; for Olivia, taken almost unawares, as for Triona. They stood for a while, the wooden barrier between them, in the gathering darkness. Impulsively she exclaimed: “We can’t part like this, with a thousand things unexplained.” “I’m at your orders, Olivia,” he replied. She caught her breath and stiffened. “We must talk to-morrow—when we have both recovered.” “I’ll be here any hour you name,” said Alexis. Radnor and his garage could go to the devil. “Nine o’clock?” “Nine o’clock,” said he. “Good night, Olivia.” “Wait.” The memory of the scandal crashed down on her. . . . “I may as well tell you now—the night may bring counsel—I’m in a terrible position. Wedderburn and Onslow—you remember?” “I do,” he said. She told him rapidly of her pledge. “It doesn’t matter a scrap to me, but it’s a damnable thing for you,” said he. “What answer would you make?” “A clean breast of everything. Could you wish me to do anything else?” “I don’t know,” she replied. “Give me time to think.” “My time is yours, Olivia.” She paused for a moment irresolute. There was a question she wished to put, but the thought of it made her feel sick and faint again. “You’ll not do anything foolish, till I see you?” “Nor anything wise,” said he. “I promise.” Again there came between them a long embarrassed silence. At last—— “Good night,” she said. “Good night, Olivia.” She flung an angry hand in the darkness and slipped away into the house. CHAPTER XXVII MRS. PETTILAND met her at the foot of the stairs. She beamed rosily beneath the gas jet. “Myra is so much better, Madam, after her sleep. The doctor came while you were out. I’m to make her some chicken broth.” Olivia mounted the stairs and entered the sick-room. “Well dearie?” She turned to the gaunt waxen face on the pillow. “I’m so glad to hear the doctor’s good report.” She forced herself to linger, speaking the commonplaces of the sick-room. Then she could bear it no longer. “I’m dead tired,” she said. “I’ll go to bed. Nurse ought to be here soon. Have you everything you want for the night?” Myra said in her even tones: “Have _you_ everything you want for the night?” And at Olivia’s quick glance of enquiry: “You look as if you’d seen a ghost. You have. I was afraid of it. I didn’t want them to send for you, but I was too ill to stop them.”