I crept out on to the terrace, outside those lighted windows; peering in, I saw Olivant lounging at the piano, evidently talking to the girl, who was seated there; young Millard was listening to something Dawkins was saying, but was evidently paying no attention to him; his eyes were upon the two at the piano. Presently, as if he could bear it no longer, he made a movement to go; shook hands with Savell, who feebly responded, and then crossed towards Barbara. She rose to meet him, and with a courage for which I should scarcely have given her credit, walked with him towards the door. But even there Olivant interposed; took the girl by the arm, and drew her away. I saw the look in the boy's eyes, and it sunk deep into my mind, so that I did not lightly forget it. I went back into the house, and presently made my way up towards my room. While I was yet on the stairs, a door down below me opened; peering over, I saw Barbara come out into the hall. At the same moment Murray Olivant came out also, and behind him in the doorway I saw the smiling face of Dawkins. Olivant seized the girl before she had set foot upon the stairs. "Come, my dear, you're not going like that!" His voice was thick and unsteady as he lurched against her. "Let me go!" she cried, in a subdued voice. "Let me go, Mr. Olivant--or shall I call my father?" "Call him, by all means; he's not likely to hear, or to trouble much if he does hear," exclaimed Olivant. "Come, you little witch--you're only shy because Dawkins is looking on. You shall kiss me good-night at least!" She broke away from him, and darted up the stairs. He stumbled in his blind rush after her, and she fled past me like a hare; I heard her sobbing as she went, and it seemed to set my numbed blood on fire. As he stumbled up the stairs he came suddenly face to face with me, standing looking at him. Dawkins, still grinning awkwardly, stood in the doorway below. "Out of the way, you fool!" exclaimed Olivant, making a rush at me; but I did not move. I stood like a thing of stone, staring at him, although in my heart I was desperately afraid. Not of him--never of him for a moment; but of what I might do. "Stand back!" I said, in a voice that was not in the least like my own. "Stand back!" "What do you mean?" he asked, involuntarily recoiling a step. "Stand back!" I said again. "I killed a man once; there is a dread in me that I might do it again!" He slowly retreated down two or three steps, still looking at me; muttered something about talking to me in the morning; then stumbled down to rejoin his friend, and disappeared with him into the room. And I sat on the stairs in the darkness, shaking from head to foot, and desperately afraid of myself. CHAPTER V I TOUCH DISASTER