When he arrived there it was dusk, as it is in October at six o’clock. He knew the place well, though he had not been of the party on that day of Sara Ford’s first visit there. He knew the way, too, to Falkenberg’s house, and quickly he walked there, and pushed open the gate, stood in the garden, and surveyed the old mansion. Behind one or two of the blinds he saw lights. Everything was very still in the dank, sad air of the autumn evening. Not a sound came from the house. The trees stood drooping and motionless, saturated with the autumnal dew, which is heavy and soaking and dank, not lying lightly like a gossamer mist as that of summer does. He could see the lights of the town twinkling here and there, and a faint hum came up from that direction; but to the right and straight before him there was only a great veil of mist, hiding field and hill, river and distance, alike. He went up to the door, and rang the bell. A man-servant opened the door, and Wellfield began: ‘Is–’ but his tongue refused to say Falkenberg’s name. ‘Is the _gnädige Frau_ at home?’ She was at home, he was told; and Wellfield entered, and told the man his name. The servant perhaps did not catch the sound of the strange name, but seeing a gentleman, composed and calm, asking for his mistress, he concluded it was right, and opening the door of the salon, announced: ‘A gentleman asks to see the gracious lady.’ Wellfield saw the lighted room, the figure seated, writing, at a table. A moment afterwards he was alone with her; she had risen and stood looking at him with a strange, alarmed, alien expression, which sent a dismal chill to his very heart. She did not speak. She stood looking at him, and, as he could not help seeing, with an expression of aversion, of shrinking distaste. Her hand grasped the back of the chair from which she had risen, as if for support. His voice first broke the silence: ‘Have I startled you, Sara? Forgive me, but I—’ She drew a long sigh, as if then first realising that she was not in some strange dream. ‘What–what brings you here?’ she asked in an almost inaudible voice. ‘I was in Frankfort,’ he said. ‘By accident I heard your name, and heard that you were here and alone. I tried to fight against it, but the impulse was too strong. I felt as if I should repent it all my life if I did not see you once more, while I could.’ ‘You seem to forget that your visit must be very unwelcome to me; and that you had no right to come. Had I known of your intention I should have ordered my servant not to admit you. You must know that you are acting very wickedly.’ ‘_Wickedly!_’ he repeated, scornfully and bitterly, ‘of course I am wicked. Have I not been wicked all along? Do you suppose I do not know it?’