The chime of the clock striking half-past nine roused her from her reverie, and she again addressed herself to the novel with a sigh. Tortured by her own thoughts, Mrs. Bezel was not accustomed to retire before midnight, and there were nearly three hours to be got through before that time. Her life was as dreary, and weary, and heart-breaking as that of Mariana in the Moated Grange. The tread of a firm footfall in the distance roused her attention, and she looked expectantly toward the door, which faced her chair. The newcomer passed up the narrow garden path, entered the house, and, after a pause in the hall, presented himself in the sitting room. Mrs. Bezel knew who it was before the door opened; for standing on the threshold was the man with the face she had lately pictured amid the burning coals. Francis Hilliston and the woman who called herself Mrs. Bezel looked steadily at one another, but no sign of welcome passed between them. He was the first to break the awkward silence. "How are you this evening, Margaret?" he asked, advancing toward her; "better, I hope. There is more color in your cheeks, more brightness in your eyes." "I am the same as ever," she replied coldly, while he drew a chair close to the fire, and stretched out his hands to the blaze. "Why have you come here at this hour?" "To see you." "No doubt! But with what purpose?" Hilliston pinched his nether lip between finger and thumb, frowning the while at the fire. Whatever had been, there was now no love between this woman and himself. But on no occasion had he noted so hostile a tone in her voice. He was aware that a duel of words and brains was about to ensue, and, knowing his antagonist, he took the button off his foil. There was no need for fine speaking or veiled hints in this conversation. It was advisable that all should be plain and straightforward, for they knew each other too well to wear their masks when alone. Under these circumstances he spoke the truth. "I think you can guess my errand," he said suavely. "It concerns the letter you wrote to Claude Larcher." "I thought as much! And what more have you to say in connection with that affair?" "I have merely to inform you that the man whom you desire to see is in London, and will no doubt answer your kind invitation in person." Mrs. Bezel stretched out her hand and selected a letter from the little pile on her table. "If you will look at that," she said coldly, "you will see that Claude intends to call on me at three o'clock to-morrow."