There was still danger in the air. The last words of the two men to each other had been hidden threats of “other agencies,” whatever they were, and she found herself praying in a whisper that the agency of England, even if it meant Cyril’s danger, might conquer. O God! It would have been better, it seemed, if the bullet at Saltham Rocks that had grazed Cyril’s arm had killed him. That death would at least have been free from the shame of that which awaited Captain Byfield. She gazed with wide eyes at her guttering candle. She was wishing for Cyril’s death! She shivered with pity for herself and for him and huddled down in the bed, a very small, very miserable object, seeking in vain some hope, some rest for her mind amid the torture of her thoughts. Suddenly she started up and sat clutching the yellow packet to her breast, her gaze fixed on the door into Cyril’s room. Had she heard a knock? Or was it only imagination? Yes. There it was again. She leaned over hurriedly and blew out the candle and lay very still, her teeth chattering with the cold, her body trembling. He was knocking again, a little louder this time, and she heard his voice through the keyhole whispering her name. She made no response and feigned sleep. He knocked again still louder and she heard her name spoken quite distinctly. He would awaken the house if this went on. When he knocked again she got up and went over to the door. “Doris!” he was saying. She answered him. “Will you open the door--just a crack?” “No,” she whispered. “I want to speak to you.” “You cannot.” “Please.” “I’m listening. What do you want to say?” “I’ve lost something--something that must have fallen from my pocket.” She was silent. And then in quick anxious tones: “You didn’t see--anythin’--on the floor by the door?” “No,” she lied, trembling. “I didn’t.” She heard him mutter. “You’re sure?” came his voice again. “Yes.” And then in dubious tones: “Oh, very well then. Sorry to have troubled you. Good night.” She didn’t reply and stole back through the darkness to her bed, into which she crept, like some thin wraith of vengeance, biding her time. Into bed, but not to sleep. She watched the moonlight grow pale into the west and saw the first gray streaks of dawn paint the wooded slopes of Ben Darrah across the valley of the Dorth. In pity for herself and Cyril she watched the new day born, a new day, bleak and cheerless, which seemed by its very aspect to pronounce a sentence upon them; the new day which was to mark the passing of all the things growing womanhood holds most dear, her first faith, her first tenderness, her first passion.