After pushing through two or three roomfuls of tall people, he finally reached the desired threshold. He felt a hand upon his arm and found Prochnow beside him. They both saw the same sight together. It was a table like Dill's--only larger, with candles on it--five times as many, and flowers--ten times as handsome, and silver and glass and china--only a hundred times more brilliant, and girls seated about it--a thousand times more fetching than poor sister Judith. Among them was Preciosa, with a big feathered hat toppling on her head and the desperate look of some hunted creature on her face. Yes, they had hung her with chains and tied her to the stake. "If she is to pour here, after all," Eudoxia had said grimly, "let her pay for the privilege." And close to the girl's elbow sat the chief inquisitor, Robin Morrell, big, bold, unabashed, persevering, bringing all possible pressure to force her to recant. People about them--his unconscious familiars--sipped and chattered, and fluttered up and away, but he remained fixed throughout. He must have her, he was determined to dominate her; in the end she could not but yield. There was no other way out for her, and none for him. And that sole way must be taken at once. Little O'Grady recognised the red face, the broad shoulders, the thick neck, the heavy hand; he still felt those fingers in his collar, that palm against his ear. "A-a-ah!" he emitted in a long sibilant cry of repressed rage. "Stay where you are a minute," he said to Prochnow, and slipped away. Ignace stared now at his rival in love just as before he had stared at his rival in art,--yet held in check both by the intimidating splendour of the ceremonial and by his own uncertainty as to the precise significance of the situation. O'Grady hurried back to Dill. "Daff, Daff!" he cried with wide eyes and with a tremulous finger that pointed back toward the tea-table, "is that the man?" "What man?" "The big brute sitting beside her." "Robin Morrell to a 't,'" said Virgilia. "Or Richard, either." "Are they trying to make her marry him?" demanded Little O'Grady, his gray-green eyes staring their widest. "That is the plan, I believe," returned Dill. "It won't come off!" cried Little O'Grady, and dashed away. He pushed and trampled his course back to Prochnow. In the library he brushed against Medora Joyce. "Oh, Dodie," he panted, "they're sacrificin' our little Preciosa to that big brute of a Morrell!" "I was afraid so," said Medora, with concern. "Stop it." "I'm going to!" said O'Grady. As he regained Prochnow's side Preciosa was just rising from the table, and Elizabeth Gibbons was slipping into her place. Preciosa left the room by another door, and Morrell walked close beside her.