He studied the tense and passionate mood that flitted across her face, that seemed to deepen the shadows about her brooding violet eyes. “I would do anything for you, Frank!” he said, with an inadequate and yet eloquent little outthrust of the arms. “Then do this for me! Let us get back to the daylight world again!” “But would it satisfy us? Would we—?” “Would we—?” she echoed forlornly. Then she turned suddenly away, to hide a trace of inconsequential tears. “We have got to!” she cried out passionately over her shoulder, as she stooped to the suit-case and deftly opened it. A moment later she was rummaging hurriedly through its neatly packed contents. “And I am Mrs. Van Schaick’s trained nurse?” she asked, ruminatively. “Yes, Miss Annie Seabrooke, remember!” “But the others—the servants—won’t they know me?” “You were engaged in Mamaroneck; not one of the city servants has seen your face.” “But it will be eleven and after—was my train delayed?” “No, not delayed; but you took a later train.” She was silent for a minute or two, as she probed deeper into the suit-case. “You haven’t promised!” she murmured, her face still low over the womanly white linen, and the little cap and apron and uniform which she was gently shaking out before her. She rose to her feet and turned to him. “I promise you—anything!” he cried, in the teeth of all his inner misgivings. He followed her to the open window. “Then kiss me!” she said, with a little exhausted sigh of ultimate surrender, as she sank into his arms and her lonely and hungry body felt the solace of his strength about and above it. And in that minute they lost all count of time and place, and for them, with the great glimmering granite city stretching away at their feet, there was neither past nor future. CHAPTER XVIII Frances Candler waited until complete quiet reigned over the house. Then she noiselessly opened her door and peered up and down the darkened hallway. A sudden thought came to her, as she stood there in the silence, and, slipping back to her room, she took first a hot-water bottle out of her nurse’s bag, and then a hypodermic syringe from its neat little morocco case. Miss Annie Seabrooke, she decided, had been making melancholy use of her knowledge of drugs. That enlightened young lady was, obviously, addicted to the use of morphine, for beside the syringe-case Frances found a little bottle bearing its telltale chemical formula: C_{17} H_{19} NO_{3}.