Elaine lay in RiviÈre's room in the Villa ClÉmentine. The doctor was injecting morphine, and a sister of mercy, grave-eyed under her spotless white coif like a Madonna of Francia, spoke soft words of comfort to soothe the agony of the blinded girl.

In the adjoining room RiviÈre waited the decision of the doctor—waited in tense, straining anxiety.

From that moment by the Druids' Tower when the vitriol had been flung upon Elaine, he had lived through a nightmare. Up on the hillside he was impotent to relieve her agony. No house around to take her to. Without a moment's delay he must get her into the hands of a doctor.

At first he had tried to lead her down the hillside, along the winding paths of the gardens, his hands around her shoulders. It was too slow. Twice the moaning girl had tripped over unseen obstacles. Then he caught her up in his arms and ran with her, the shadows of the trees and the undergrowth clutching at him like mocking shapes in a Dantesque vision of the nether world.

Even when down below the hillside, by the aqueduct, they were still far from the Villa ClÉmentine and yet farther from Elaine's hotel by the station. Some conveyance was imperative. But in a quiet country town like NÎmes there are no cabs to be found wandering around at night-time. Nor was there carriage or motor-car in sight.

A peasant's cart drawn by a tiny donkey came providentially to solve the problem. RiviÈre laid Elaine on the straw of the cart; snatched the reins from the owner; drove home at frantic speed; had her put to bed in his own room by Mme Giras; 'phoned imperatively for a doctor and a nurse.

And now he waited in straining anxiety for the verdict. The waiting was more horrible than the nightmare flight through the shadows of the garden on the hillside. That at all events had been action; now he was being stretched in passive helplessness on the rack of Time.

After an Æon of waiting, the doctor left the sick-room and closed the door noiselessly behind him. RiviÈre looked him square in the eye.

"I want the truth," he said in French. The words sounded as though his throat had closed in tight around them.

"We must wait until the morning before it will be possible that we may say definitely," replied the doctor.

"To say if——?"

"If we can save the right eye."

"The left?"

"I greatly fear——" A slight gesture of his two hands completed the sentence.

"It's ghastly! That beast——!"

"But you must not despair," continued the doctor in an endeavour to be optimistic. "Madame is strong and healthy. She has a very sound constitution, and in such a case as this it is a most important factor in the recovery. You may rely on me to do my utmost. I have great hopes that we may save the right eye of madame, your wife."

"Mademoiselle," corrected RiviÈre mechanically.

"Mademoiselle," amended the doctor with a formal little bow.

"You will come again later to-night?"

"That would serve no useful purpose. I have injected a large dose of morphine, and mademoiselle is on the point of sleep. I have left full instructions with the Sister, and if anything unforeseen occurs, she will communicate with me by telephone."

"I have a further question to ask you, doctor. Mademoiselle Verney is alone in NÎmes. She has no friends here beyond myself, and she has been staying at the Hotel de Provence while passing through the town. Would it be better for her to be at the hotel, or at the town hospital, or here?"

"Here—decidedly!" answered the doctor. "Mme Giras is kindness itself—I know her well. I recommend that mademoiselle stay here."

RiviÈre could do nothing but wait the verdict of the morning, tortured by hopes and fears. The doctor had spoken of saving the right eye, but was this mere professional optimism?

Suppose Elaine were blinded for life—blinded on his account. What was she to do for her livelihood? He knew that she was an orphan; that her relations were repellant to her; and her pride could scarcely let her throw herself for long on the hospitality of her friends in Paris. Her slender means would soon be exhausted—what was she to do then?

With overwhelming conviction RiviÈre saw the inevitable solution. She had been blinded while trying to save him. The debt, the overwhelming debt, lay on him. He must provide for her, guard over her.

If she would accept such help....

In the cold grey of a mist-shrouded morning he woke with a new insistent thought hammering into his brain. For the first time since he had taken up the personality of John RiviÈre, doubt surged upon him in wave after wave of icy, sullen surf. Had he had the right to cut loose from the life of Clifford Matheson? Had one alone of a married couple the right to decide on such a separation? Had he violated some unwritten law of Fate, and was this the hand of Fate punishing him through the woman he cared for more deeply than he had yet confessed to himself?

He knew now that from the first moment of their meeting by the arena of Arles she had opened within him—against his volition—a whole realm of inner feelings which up till then had lain dormant. He had wanted no woman in this new life of his, and both at Arles and at NÎmes he had tried to shut and bolt the gate of the secret realm. Sincerely he had wanted to give his whole thoughts and energies to his future work, but here was something which persisted in his inner consciousness against his will. It was like curtaining the windows and shutting one's eyes against a storm—in spite of barriers the lightning slashes through to the retina of the eye.

Was Fate to punish him through the woman he loved?

RiviÈre rose with determination and flung the thought aside. "Fate" was only a bogey to frighten children with. "Fate" was a coward's master. Every man had the right to rough-hew his own life. He, RiviÈre, had chosen his new life with eyes open, and, right or wrong, he would stick by his choice and hew out his life on his own lines. If "Fate" were indeed a reality, then he would fight it as he had fought Lars Larssen. He would unknot the tangled threads at whatever cost to himself.

The doctor looked very grave when he had left Elaine's bedside the next morning.

"The injuries are very serious," he told RiviÈre. "The cornea of the right eye has almost been destroyed by the acid. It will heal over, but the sight will not be as it was before."

"You mean blinded for life—in both eyes?" asked RiviÈre, ruthless for his own feelings.

"We must not hope for too much," hedged the doctor. "A great deal depends on the course of the recovery. I wish not to raise false hopes...."

"You must pardon what I am going to say, doctor. I have every confidence in your skill, but is it not possible that the help of an eye specialist from Paris or Lyons might be of service?"

The doctor put false dignity aside and answered sympathetically: "You are right, monsieur, a specialist is needed. As soon as mademoiselle can stand the long journey, I would advise that she be taken to Wiesbaden, to the very greatest specialist in the world."

"You mean Hegelmann?"

"None other."

"It would not be possible for him to travel to here?"

The doctor shook his head decisively. "Only for kings does he travel. He has too many patients in his surgical home at Wiesbaden who need him daily."

"When will mademoiselle be able to make the journey?"

"Within the week, I hope."

Information of the attack had of course been given to the police, who were hot on the trail of the youth Crau. Meanwhile the local papers sent their reporters to interview RiviÈre. He was too well accustomed to the ways of pressmen to refuse an interview. He received them and replied with the very briefest facts of the case, explaining that he wished to avoid publicity so far as it was possible. He asked them at all events to leave out names, as French journals will sometimes do, on request.

Amongst the callers was an Englishman who sent in word that he was a local correspondent for the Europe Chronicle. RiviÈre had him shown into the garden of the villa, to the arbour. The would-be interviewer was a man of thirty, quiet and secretive looking, with a heavy dark moustache curtaining the expression of his lips. "Morris Sylvester" was the name on his card.

He carried a hand-camera, which he placed on a seat beside him and pointed it towards the path from the house. As RiviÈre approached, Sylvester's left hand was fingering the silent release of the instantaneous shutter. He had made a practice of working his camera surreptitiously while his eyes held the eyes of his subject.

"Mr Sylvester," began RiviÈre, "I want to ask you a favour, as one Englishman to another. Publicity is extremely distasteful to the lady who has been so terribly injured. To have her story spread broadcast for the satisfaction of idle curiosity would only add to her sufferings. Isn't it possible for you to suppress this story?"

Sylvester looked hesitant. "I am sincerely sorry for the lady," he said. "But of course I have my duty to my journal. I had intended to wire a full column, and take a picture of the scene of the attack by the Druids' Tower." He took up his camera from the seat beside him, as though to show his purpose.

After a moment of reflection he added: "Would it satisfy you if I were to suppress names?"

"I would much rather you wrote nothing at all," replied RiviÈre. "I know that I can't insist. I appeal to your generosity in the matter."

"Very well. Under the circumstances, in deference to the feelings of your friend, I'll take it on myself to suppress the story."

"That's very kind of you. Is there no form of quid pro quo...?" suggested RiviÈre tentatively.

"Thanks—nothing."

"You'll take something with me before you go?"

"Thanks—yes."

Over the glasses Sylvester chatted pleasantly about matter of no import, and then brought the conversation round to the real object of his visit—to get certain information for Lars Larssen.

"Your name seems familiar to me, somehow," he ventured. "Aren't you a scientist, Mr RiviÈre?"

"I do a little private research work," was the guarded admission.

"I seem to associate your name with that of Clifford Matheson, the financier."

"My half-brother."

"Ah, that's it.... A very remarkable man. I had the pleasure of interviewing him once, at his office in the Rue Lafitte."

RiviÈre knew that for a lie. He had never seen Sylvester before, to his knowledge, and he had a keen memory for faces. What was the man driving at? He must try and discover. With his long years of business training behind him, RiviÈre became suddenly expansive, talking with apparent frankness without in reality saying anything of import.

"As you say, a remarkable man. That is, as a financier. Personally I have no interests in that direction. My brother and I have very little in common. He is the man of affairs, and I am buried in my work. What was the subject of your interview with him?"

"Canada's future. He gave me a splendid interview—first-rate copy," lied Sylvester. "Have you seen your brother lately? Is he engaged on any big scheme just now? Perhaps you could put me on to a news story in that direction? I should be glad if you could."

RiviÈre knew that Sylvester was fishing for information of some kind, but what it was puzzled him completely, unless the man were now speaking the truth in his statement that he was on the look-out for financial news. That seemed the only solution of the puzzle.

"I've seen nothing of my brother lately," answered RiviÈre. "He's at Monte Carlo, I believe. I'm sorry not to be able to help you in the matter, but, as I said before, I'm very little interested in my brother's movements or plans. His ways and mine lie apart. If I hear of anything that might be of service to you, I'll let you know. Will you give me your address?"

"Hotel de la Poste will find me. I travel about the Midi for the Chronicle. They'll send on any message for me at the hotel."

"Many thanks for your kindness in the matter of suppressing the story of the attack," said RiviÈre, and his tone intimated that it was now time for the visitor to leave.

Sylvester, having gained the objects of his visit, rose and took his departure. Inside half-an-hour he had developed an excellent snap-shot of RiviÈre walking along the garden path towards him. He wrote a long letter to Lars Larssen explaining that John RiviÈre apparently knew nothing of the disappearance of Clifford Matheson, and detailing the story of Elaine and the vitriol outrage.

With the letter he enclosed a bromide print of the snapshot.

Inside a room, closely shuttered to keep out the light, RiviÈre was talking earnestly with Elaine a few days later. The agony of the first days had died down, but she was absolutely helpless. Her eyes were bandaged, and she was dependent on the sister of mercy and Mme Giras for everything.

"Crau is in prison," said he. "I've given formal evidence against him, and he is remanded for trial a month hence. When you are well again, they will take your evidence on commission. He will undoubtedly be sentenced to hard labour for some years."

"What does it matter to me—now?" There was despair in her voice.

"The doctor is very hopeful for you, if you will put yourself under Hegelmann's care."

"He can do nothing for me, I feel it. Only useless expense. No man can give me back the sight I want for my work."

"In time," said RiviÈre gently, but he could not force conviction into his voice. It went hard with him to lie to the woman he cared for most in the world, even to bring temporary comfort to her.

"My work. BarrÈze and the OdÉon," she murmured slowly, speaking to herself rather than to him. "My work was my life. I remember your saying to me in the garden, by the arbour, only a few days ago: 'If Fate were to deny you your freedom!' I shivered even at the words.... Do you believe in Fate?"

RiviÈre's fist was clenched as he answered: "I'll fight Fate for both of us."

She was silent for a few moments. Then she asked: "Will you write a letter for me?"

He brought pen and ink, and waited for her dictation.

"My dear BarrÈze," she dictated slowly, "you must find someone else to paint your scenes of Provence. I am blinded for life——"

"Don't ask me to write that!"

"I am blinded for life," she continued with the clear tones of one whose mental vision sees the future unveiled. "They want me to go to Hegelmann at Wiesbaden. He is a great man, and will do for me all that surgical skill can do. There will be an operation—several, perhaps. It may perhaps give me a faint gleam of light—enough to tell light from darkness and to realize more keenly all that I have lost. I shall never see the theatre again—never paint again. I shall live on the memories of the past and the bitter thoughts of what might have been——"

"I can't write it!" he cried, torn with the pathos of the words she bade him put to paper.

"——of what might have been. My friends of the theatre must pass out of my life. They can have no use for a crippled, helpless woman, nor do I wish to cloud their happiness with my unwanted presence. Say good-bye to them for me. And you, my dear BarrÈze, I would thank for the chance you gave me. Your encouragement would have had its reward if I had kept my sight. But it is gone—gone for always—and I am wreckage on the rocks...."

"Elaine, Elaine!" he cried. "You have me by your side! I ask you to let me devote my life to you!"

The answer came gently: "I must not accept such a sacrifice. You offer it out of pity for me. Later, you would repent of it. You have your work to do and your life to live in the open sunshine.... Yet don't think me ungrateful. I am deeply grateful. I shall remember what you said out of pity for me, and treasure it amongst my dearest thoughts."

"It's not pity, Elaine, but——"

He stopped abruptly. The accusing hand of memory had touched him on the shoulder. He had no right to make any such offer—it had come from his heart in passionate sincerity, but it was not his to give. Olive was still his wife. Disguise it as he would, he was still Clifford Matheson.

He must leave Elaine to think that pity alone had moulded his words. To explain to her now the shackles of circumstance that bound him fast would be sheer cruelty, for if she knew the whole truth, she would send him away from her and refuse even the temporary help he could give her.

For Elaine's sake he must keep silent.

A pause of bitter reflection raised a barrier of stone between them. When he spoke again, it was from the other side of the barrier. "At least you will let me stay by you until you leave Hegelmann's charge? That I claim.... And I believe he will be able to do for you much more than you imagine. He has worked wonders before. He will do so again. He is the foremost specialist in the world. All that money can command shall be yours."

"Money is terribly useless," said Elaine sadly.