There was a lamp not far off and in its rays she saw him running up, still holding the cloak in a black bunch over his arm. He stopped, just beyond where she cowered, and looked irresolutely up and down. The lamplight fell on his face, and in certain angles she saw it plainly, pale and glistening with moisture, all keen and alert with a look of attentive cunning. He moved his head this way and that, evidently trusting more to hearing than to sight. His eyes, no longer half veiled in cold indifference, swept her hiding-place with the preoccupation of one who listens intently. He looked to her like some thwarted animal harkening for the steps of his prey. Her terror grew with the sight of him. She thought if he had approached the bushes she would have swooned before he reached them. Presently he turned and went down the hill. In the pause his reason had reasserted itself, and he felt that to hound her down with more threats and reproaches was useless folly. But, with her, reason and judgment were hopelessly submerged by terror. She crept out from among the shrubs with white face and trembling limbs, and fled up the hill in a wild, breathless race, hearing Essex in every sound. The rain had dripped on her through the bushes, and these last two blocks under its unrestrained fury soaked her to the skin. Her haunting terror did not leave her till she had rushed up the stairs and opened the door of the glass porch. She was fumbling in her pocket for the latch-key, when the inner door was opened and Barron stood in the aperture, the lighted hall behind him. “What on earth has delayed you?” he said sharply. “They’re all at supper. I was just going down to Mrs. Willers’ to see what was keeping you.” She stumbled in at the door, and stood in the revealing light of the hall, for the moment unable to answer, panting and drenched. “What’s the matter?” he said suddenly in a different tone; and quickly stepping back he shut the door into the dining-room. “Has anything happened?” “I’m--only--only--frightened,” she gasped between broken breaths. “Something frightened me.” She reeled and caught against the door-post. “I’m all wet,” she whispered with white lips; “don’t let them know. I don’t want any dinner.” He put his arm round her and drew her toward the stairs. He could feel her trembling like a person with an ague and her saturated clothes left rillets along the stairs. When they were half-way up he said: “How did you get so wet? Have you been out in this storm without an umbrella?” “I lost it,” she whispered. “Lost it?” he replied. “Where’s your cloak?” “Somewhere,” she said vaguely; “somewhere in the street. I lost that, too.” They were at the top of the stairs. She suddenly turned toward him and pressed her face into his shoulder, trembling like a terrified animal. “I’m frightened,” she whispered. “Don’t tell them downstairs. I’ll tell you to-morrow. Don’t ask me anything to-night.”