THE face hung there against the darkness for a second; then the leaves closed over it as it was stealthily withdrawn. In the utterness of his astonishment, Hindwood all but gave himself away. It was not the face he had expected.

Masking his excitement with a yawn, he turned his back on the window and stepped toward the door, opening it sufficiently to thrust his head into the passage, but not wide enough to permit the watcher in the bushes to learn anything of the person with whom he talked. He found his captress standing just beyond the threshold, carrying a tray, which accounted for her awkwardness.

“You won't have to dine in the village,” she explained. Then, catching his strange expression, “What has happened?”

“Some one was to come to-night,” he whispered: “the person who gave orders for my kidnaping. Isn't that so? She was to enter through the window from the lawn, while you held me prisoner at the revolver's point.”

“Is she here?”

“No, but a man who is her enemy—a Major Cleasby. He's hiding directly in her path. He supposed you were she when you tried the door. He showed his face. Is there any way in which we can warn her?”

The widow set down her tray. Her eyes met his searchingly. “If the man were there, you wouldn't want to save her.”

“Why not? You think I've invented the man in the bushes in order that Santa may be scared away? I'm no more afraid of Santa than I was of you. Besides, in your absence I've stolen your revolver. Ah, that convinces you! The man's her husband and a secret service agent. I can feel his eyes in my back. If you don't warn her, she'll be caught. There must have been some prearranged signal. What was it?”

Instead of answering, she pressed nearer, glancing fearfully across her shoulder into the unlighted hall. Her voice came so faintly that he could only just hear her.

“She wouldn't spare us. Why should you and I—? You don't know what she intended.”

He smiled grimly. “I can guess. I was to have been her scapegoat for the Rogovich murder. She was staging a new version of what happened in the woods of Vincennes. Whether she escaped or was brought to trial, I was to have been arrested. By that time she would have clothed me with the appearance of her guilt. I was to have figured as her lover and the Prince's rival. The motive for my crime was to have been jealousy. The old story—an innocent man dying in her stead!”

“If you think you know that, why should you, unless you are her lover?”

“Because she's a woman.”

Her hands seized his, coaxing him from the doorway into the darkened passage. “For the love of God, go!” she implored. “I give you back your parole.”

Drawing her to him, he held her fast. “Don't struggle. He might hear you. You decoyed me. You trapped me. Why this change? What makes you so concerned for my safety?”

“I didn't know,” she panted, “the kind of man you are.”

“What kind?”

Her heart beat wildly. She lay against him unstirring, her face averted. The moment he released her, she burst forth into new pleading.

“For my sake. I beg of you.”

Into the grimness of his smiling there stole a gleam of tenderness. “And leave you? I guess not. What's the signal?”

“The piano.”

“Come, then,” he said, “you shall play for me. While you play, if we mask our expressions, we can talk of what we choose. Outwardly, to deceive the man in the bushes, we must act a part. I'm an old friend. I've dropped in unexpectedly. You've provided me with supper. While I eat, we chatter and laugh. You sit at the piano and sing for me occasionally. When the hour for Santa's arrival is past, I take my leave. If you're brave, we can carry the farce through. Are you game?”

For answer she picked up the tray and stepped into the room, smiling back at him as he followed.

“I'm your humble servant, as always, Mr. Hind-wood, but I have only two hands and they're occupied. If you'll bring up that table—yes, set it before the fire. That's right. You must be comfortable, if I'm to sing for you.”

II

She won't come now.”

The words reached him in a sigh. The pale hands fluttered from the keyboard. The fair head dropped. Almost instantly she straightened herself, banishing her appearance of weariness. “Don't think that I'm showing the white feather. It's only that I'm exhausted. She won't come now. I'm sure of it.” Then, bending forward with a nervous tremor, “I daren't look round. Has he gone?”

Hindwood pushed back his chair from before the hearth. For the moment he did not answer. He was striving to restore the spell which the intrusion of her fear had broken. Glancing at her sideways, he regarded her quietly where she sat at the piano in her widow's garb. Through the window at her back he caught a glimpse of the garden, shadowy and patched with moonlight. Above the silence he heard the rumble of waves, sifting the pebbles on the shore. Who was she, this woman who possessed the magic to enchant him? Who had been her husband? What kind of man? Had she loved him? How long since he had died? There were so many questions.

She had persuaded him into following her, well knowing that he believed her to be Santa. She had met his discovery of her impersonation with a threat. When the luck was all in her favor, with the panic of a stricken conscience she had thrown in her hand. For the past two hours, in this cozy room, she had surrounded him with shy intimacies of affection, to the end that the unseen spectator, listening outside the panes, might be beguiled. Apparently the deception had succeeded; the spectator had given no sign. It had succeeded too well for Hindwood. It had roused in him the longing that, behind her pretense of friendship, there might lurk a genuine emotion of liking. He had tried to forget that the scene was stage-set. He had wanted to believe that it was real.

“Has he gone?”

There was a break in her voice.

He pulled himself together. “Do you wish me to make certain?”

Rising, he lounged over to the piano as though to select a sheet from the pile of music. In a flash he turned, wrenching wide the doors of the French-window, and was across the step in a bound. Nothing rose from the shadows to disturb the peace of the night. Stooping by the bushes, he made a hurried examination.

“Come,” he called. Then, seeing how she pressed her hands against her mouth, “There's no need to fear.”

When she was standing by his side, he explained: “To-morrow you might think that I'd tricked you. I want you to see for yourself. Here's where he was hiding when he peered in on me. The ground's trampled. The bushes are bent back.”

“He may be still here,” she whispered, “in the garden—somewhere.”

Hindwood smiled reassuringly into her upturned face. “He wouldn't do you any harm if he were. Remember he's a secret service agent. As a matter of fact, he ought to make you feel safe.”

“Safe!” She knotted her hands against her breast. “Shall I ever feel safe? Oh, if I could confess—to you, to any one!”

“If it would help——”

Without giving him a chance to finish his sentence, she plucked at his sleeve with the eagerness of a child. “Would you?”

“What?”

“Let me?”

III

They had reentered the room, fastening the window securely behind them. When that was done, they had drawn the curtains across the panes. She had flung herself into a chair beside the fire and was waiting impatiently for him to join her. But he hovered in the center of the room, fingering his watch and looking troubled.

“What's delaying you?” she asked without turning.

He slipped his watch into his pocket. “I had no idea it was so late.”

“Does that matter? Till morning there are no trains.”

“I was thinking of hotels.”

“They'll be shut.”

“Precisely. So what am I——?”

“Stay with me,” she said lazily.

The room became profoundly silent. The darkened house seemed to listen. Had he plumbed a new depth in this drama of betrayal at the moment when he hoped he had discovered loyalty? He had been deceived by women before. Had he not allowed Santa to deceive him, he would not have been here. He might tell himself that this woman was different. If a man did not tell himself that each new woman was different, the mischief of love would end.

He caught sight of her flaxen head and became ashamed of his reflections. It wasn't possible, if the soul was foul, that the flesh should be so fair. She had the wonder of the dawn in her eyes. Nothing that she had said or done could belie the frankness of her innocence. Standing behind her chair, he gazed down in puzzlement at her graciousness.

“There are conventions. We may have met unconventionally, but neither of us can afford to ignore them.”

Without looking up, she answered, “If you were as alone as I am, you could afford to ignore anything.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“Then you understand.”

“I think I understand.” He spoke gently. “I suppose no man can ever be so lonely as a woman, especially as a woman who has lost her happiness, but I, too, have been lonely. Everybody has. The cowardice which comes of loneliness is responsible for nearly every wickedness. Most thefts, and cheatings, and even murders are committed in an effort to gain companionship. But you can't elude loneliness by short-cuts. Wherever you go, it's with you from birth to death. Brave people make it their friend. Cowards let it become their tempter. Loneliness is no excuse for wrong-doing, nor even for surrendering to the appearance of it.”

“Preaching?”

“No. Trying to share with you my experience. Until this afternoon, you didn't know that I existed. All your life up to the last five minutes, you've been able to do without me. Don't be greedy and spoil everything before it's started. There's tomorrow.”

“Why wait for to-morrow when I trust you now?”

He stooped lower. She had become irresistibly dear. In a rush he had found the clue to her character—her childishness. She couldn't bear to postpone the things she wanted.

“Trust me! I wonder! You're the first woman to have the daring to tell me. I'm not sure that I feel complimented; at this hour of night one has to be a little cold to be trusted like that. But I trust you—which is strange after all that's happened. The person I distrust is myself. You're beautiful. The most beautiful——”

“Am I more beautiful than Santa?”

He caught the vision of her blue eyes glinting up at him. There was nothing roguish in their expression. They were pathetic in their earnestness. Her throat was stretched back, white and firm. Her lips were vivid and parted. Her question sounded like the ruse of a coquette, yet she seemed wholly unaware of her attraction.

He drew himself erect, staring at the wall that he might forbid himself the danger of looking at her. His voice came harsh and abrupt. “Your confession can keep till morning. One can say and unsay anything. It's deeds that can never be unsaid.”

He had reached the door. She spoke dully. “You despise me.” And then, “All my life I've waited for to-morrows. Go quickly.”

Glancing across his shoulder he saw her, a mist of gold in a great emptiness. Slowly he turned back.

“Can't you guess the reason for my going? I reverence you too much.”

Clutching at his hands, she dragged herself to her feet. “It's friendship that I'm asking. What's the use of reverence? Like me a little. You'd do more for Santa. Only to like me wouldn't cost you much.”

IV

I should have died if you'd left me.” He was feeling both amused and annoyed at his surrender; at the same time he was on the alert for developments. She had extinguished the lamps. The sole illumination was the firelight. For what reason she had done it, whether as an aid to confession or as a discouragement to watchers, she allowed him to guess. Whatever the reason, the precaution was wise, but it increased the atmosphere of liaison. He had pushed back his chair to the extreme corner of the hearth, so that he was scarcely discernible. She sat where the glow from the coals beat up into her face. He saw her profile against a background of darkness.

“Died!” He pursed his lips in masculine omniscience. “You'd have gone to your bed and had a good night's rest.”

“I shouldn't. I was in terror. I used to be afraid only by night; now it's both day and night. You're never afraid. You weren't afraid even when I——. How do you manage it?”

“By doing things, instead of thinking about the things that can be done to me. I've learned that what we fear never happens—fear's a waste of time. Fear's imagination playing tricks by pouncing out of cupboards. It's the idiot of the intellect, gibbering in the attic after nightfall. IPs a coward, spreading cowardice with false alarms. It's a liar and a libeller; life's a thousand times kinder than fear would have us paint it.”

She sighed happily. “It was kind to me to-night.” He waited for her confession to commence. She leaned back, her eyes half shut, watching the red landscape in the dancing flames. Time moved gently. Night seemed eternal. Her contentment proved contagious. Neither of them spoke. Nothing mattered save the comfort of her presence. In a hollow of the coals he invented a dream cottage to which he would take her. It had a scarlet wood behind it and mountains with ruby-tinted caves. As the fire settled, the mirage faded.

“Does it strike you as comic,” he questioned, “that you and I should sit here after midnight and that I shouldn't even know what to call you?”

“Varensky. Anna Varensky.”

“Russian?”

She nodded.

“But are you Russian?”

“I'm Ivan Varensky's wife.”

“You say it proudly, as though I ought to know who Ivan Varensky was.”

She turned her head slowly, wondering at him. “There's only one Ivan Varensky: the man who wanted to be like Christ.”

Hindwood jerked himself into wakefulness. “I'm afraid I need enlightenment. I don't——”

“You do,” she contradicted patiently, “or rather, you will when I've helped you to recall him. How hurt he would be, poor Ivan, that a man of your standing should so soon have forgotten him! He hoped to make such a noise in the world. After Czardom had fallen, he aimed to be a savior, healing men with words. But he wanted to be crucified at once. He cared more for Calvary than for the road that led up to it. He was an emotionalist, impatient of Gethsemane; it was the crown of thorns that he coveted. Having only words with which to save humanity, he dashed all over Russia in special trains, speechifying at every halting-place, foretelling his approaching end. He had no time to waste; he believed his days were numbered. His message was always the same, whether he was addressing the Duma, armies marching into action, or a handful of peasants: he was about to die for Russia. Then suddenly Trotzky and Lenine came. They were men who did things; they overthrew his government. Worse, still, they refused to fulfill his prophecies; instead of executing him, they bundled him into exile. To be forced to live, when he had pledged himself to die, was a more cruel crucifixion than any he had anticipated. He found himself nailed to the cross of ridicule with no one to applaud his sacrifice. He was left with nothing to talk about, for the thing he had talked about had not happened. He was an idealist, an inspirer, a prophet, but because death had avoided him, there was no gospel to write. Having climbed the long road to Calvary, he had the tragedy to survive. Don't think I'm belittling him. I loved him. It was a proud, but not an easy task to be the wife of a man who wanted to be like Christ.”

She collapsed into silence, sitting lost in thought, her arms hanging limply by her sides. He wondered what pictures she was seeing in the fire—armed men marching, revolution, palaces going up in dame.

Of course he remembered the Varensky she had described—the Varensky who, in the darkest hour of the war, had hurled himself like a knight-errant to the rescue of the Allies. It was he who was to have consolidated Russia, leading its millions in an endless tide to the defeat of the enemies of righteousness. It was freedom he had promised; freedom to everybody. He had preached that every man was good in himself, that the things that made men bad were laws. Therefore he had swept all laws aside. He had done away with compulsion, repealed death penalties, thrown prisons wide. For a day and night he had held the stage, a shining figure, adored by despairing eyes. Then the slaves whom he had released from restraints had surged over him. He had vanished, trampled beneath ungrateful feet, and Russia had become a mob.

So this was Varensky's wife! He felt awed. The romantic heroism of her husband's failure clothed her with a wistful sacredness. Three years ago he could not have approached her. He would scarcely have dared to have regarded her as a woman. The hysteria of the moment had canonized her. Streets through which she drove in Petrograd had been lined with kneeling throngs. There had been something medieval in the spontaneity of her worship. It had been rumored that she was a bride immaculate; that her purity was the secret of her husband's strength. Her face made the story credible. It had the virgin innocence of a saint's. And here he was allowed to sit beside her, with three years gone, sharing her hearth in this obscure place of hiding!

“You were a Russian Joan of Arc,” he declared enthusiastically. “How well I remember all the legends one read about you. And Varensky—— It doesn't matter that he failed; his was the most gallant figure of the entire war. When every nation was embittered, he set us an example of how not to hate. He refused to kill, when all of us were slaying. He had the courage of meekness; in that at least he followed Christ. What became of him? There was a report——”

“There have been many reports,” she interrupted sadly. “Lest the latest be true, I wear mourning. I wear mourning for him always. Before his fall I was his perpetual bride; since his fall I am his perpetual widow. He wishes to be dead, so to please him——-”

“Then he's still alive?” Immediately he was conscious of the indecency of his disappointment.

She gazed into the darkness with a mild surprise. “I do not know. I never know. That's the torture of it. He was always less a man than a spirit. I begin to think he can not die.”

“You want him——?”

If she had heard his uncompleted question, she ignored it. With folded hands she stared into the red heart of the fire. Behind her, across the walls and ceiling as flames leaped and flickered, shadows took fantastic shapes. When she spoke, as though she were talking to herself, her words came softly.

“He was such a child—so dear, so vain, so intense, so sensitive. Why did he marry me, if it was only to resign me? He treated me as he treated Russia. We were both waiting for him to take us in his arms. But it was always ideals—things one can't embrace—that drew out his affections. Had he loved humanity less and individuals more, he could have gone so far. There was something monstrous about his self-abnegations. Perhaps he denied himself the things for which he did not care. He wanted to seem nobler than any one else. Through egotism he missed his chance. Had he planned to live, he could have killed his enemies and prevented revolution. There was a time when he could have crushed both Lenine and Trotzky. But he had to be too noble. 'No,' he said, 'if their ideal is more right than mine, it will conquer. Truth can not be silenced by slaughter.' It was his inhuman magnanimity that defeated him. So Lenine and Trotzky grew strong and crushed him. Because he had planned to die, millions are starving, and Russia is in chaos.”

“But he doesn't own it?”

“In his heart—yes. Like a General who has blundered, the vision of lost battlefields is forever in his eyes—the forests of white crosses! His egotism is gone. He wants to make atonement; to perish seems the only way. Any one who would delay him, even though she were a woman who loved him, is his enemy. In his remorse he hounds death as other men avoid it. He's head of the counterrevolution and goes continually into Russia for the overthrow of Bolshevism. Not that he hopes for success, but that he may be put against a wall and shot.”

“And always he returns?”

“Always until this last time.”

Her voice sank away in a whisper. He eyed her with misgiving. What was it she desired?

“I read something of this. He's been missing for a long time?”

“A long time.”

Coming out of the shadows, so that she could see his face, he drew his chair close to hers.

“And what has this to do with your confession?”

V

She flinched, as though he had made a motion to strike her. “My confession! Ah, yes! I forgot.” She tried to smile. Stretching out her hand, she touched him in a timid appeal for understanding. Taking it between his own he held it fast.

“Like that,” he said, “as though it were a bird that's tired. It isn't its own nest, but it's safe and warm; let it rest till it grows stronger.”

“You're good,” she faltered. “Most good men are hard.”

“Maybe,” he laughed. “But I'm not good. On the other hand, I don't suppose I'm bad. I'm simply a man who's always had to fight, so I know what it's like to be up against it. You're up against it at present. You can see nothing before you but a high stone wall with no way round it. I've been there, and I've found that when you can't get round a wall, there's usually a door. What do you say? Shall we look for a door together?”

“I have.” She sank her head. “Every day and night in three interminable years I've looked for it. I'm like a person lost in a fog, standing still, listening, running, falling.”

“Scared to death?”

She nodded.

“Then don't be scared; stop running. Wait for your fear to catch up with you. If you face it, it'll shrink to nothing. The feet of a pursuer are like an army. What's causing your panic? Varensky? The thought that he may not return?”

“No.”

“That he may?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“That he may go on wasting me forever.”

She waited for him to say something. When he remained silent, she bent forward staring vacantly into the hearth. “Perhaps I'm a coward and unfaithful. Perhaps if he'd been successful—— I know what he thinks of me: that I'm a fair-weather wife. But I'm not. If it would help him, I'd give my life for him. He doesn't want my life. He doesn't want my body. He wants the one thing that I can't give him—that I should believe in him. There are people who still believe in him—the Little Grandmother. There are others, like Prince Rogovich, who pretended to believe in him that he might use him as a cat's-paw. He says good-by to me for the last time and vanishes. I wait in retirement for news of his execution. At the end of two months, three months, half a year, he comes back. Then the rehearsing for his martyrdom commences all afresh. If there were anything I could do! But to be wasted for no purpose!”

She turned her head wearily, glancing at him sideways. “You called me the Joan of Russia. I was almost. There was a time when not to be loved and not to be a mother seemed a small price to pay for sainthood. It was my happiness against the happiness of millions. But now——” Her eyes filmed over.

“But now———?” he prompted.

She brushed her tears away with pitiful defiance. “I want to be a woman—to be everything in some man's life.”

“Perhaps you are in his, but he doesn't show it.”

She seemed to listen for laughter. Then, “No,” she said. “When I try to be a woman, I play Satan to him.”

“And that's the wall?”

“Not all of it. There's Santa.”

In the swift march of his emotions he had almost forgotten Santa. As though she had been drowning and he had turned back from rescuing her, the mention of her name stung him with reproach.

“What of Santa?” he asked in a low voice.

VI

She's in love with my husband.”

He let go her hand. “Do you mind if I smoke? Perhaps you'll join me? No?”

He took his time while he lit his cigarette. Then, speaking slowly, “I can't believe all the evil that I've heard about this woman. And yet I ought. Every fresh person has told me something increasingly vile. To make a case against her, I have only to take all the trouble she's caused me. I meet her on a liner and part with her on landing; from that moment I have no peace. I'm pestered by strangers accusing and defending her. My room is entered by spies. I find an anonymous note pinned to my pillow. I'm lured out of London into the heart of the country on the pretext that she's in danger and I can help her. You know the rest. Until the happenings of tonight, the most probable explanation seemed to be that she had taken a secret fancy to me and had turned to me in her distress, when she found herself suspected of a crime. That theory won't hold water any longer.”

“It might.”

“It couldn't. You tell me she's in love with your husband.”

“Santa can be in love with as many men as serve her purpose. The only loyalty to which she's constant is the memory of her dead child.”

He shook himself irritably. “Nothing that you' or any one has told me explains her. She left on me an impression of nobility which absolutely contradicts all this later information. Until I met you, it almost seemed there was a conspiracy on foot to poison my mind. What she is said to have done may all be true, but I can't help searching behind her actions for a higher motive. You'd clear matters up if you'd tell me frankly how it is that you come into the picture.”

“The picture!” She shrank back from him like a timid child.

Controlling himself, he spoke patiently. “Do I need to be explicit? You ought to hate her. She's in love with your husband. When, a few hours ago, it was a case of warning her of the trap she was walking into, you were reluctant to give the signal. 'She wouldn't spare us,' you said; 'so why should you and I——?' And yet you're her accomplice. It was you whom I followed. It was you who, when you'd got me into this room, tried to hold me at the revolver's point.”

She buried her face in the hollow of her arm. Her voice came muffled. “It was I.”

He waited for her to say more. She made no sound—not even of sobbing.

“It was a dangerous game to play,” he reminded her. “You didn't know your man or how he would take it. You must have had some strong motive. You might have killed me without even intending. What a risk you ran, doing a thing like that singlehanded! For a moment, when I first entered, everything was touch and go.”

And still she made no reply.

The fire had burned low. He emptied coals on it. To bridge the embarrassment of her silence, he went over to the window, pulling aside the curtains, and stood gazing out at the glory of the night. The moon rode high. Trees were clumped and motionless. The crooning of waves made a continual lullaby.

She was married, and she was wasted. She was not wanted, and she was not released. She had a husband who refused to live and could not contrive to die. As a substitute for passion she had tried sainthood; it had not satisfied.

He let the curtains fall. Turning, he gazed back at the black-garbed figure bowed in the half-circle of firelight. Her golden hair had broken loose. It poured across her shoulders and gathered at her feet in a pool. At the moment she looked more a Magdalene than a saint. And this was the woman who had made men brave by her purity—to whom a nation had turned in its agony!

A flood of pity swept over him. Poor, narrow shoulders to have borne such a burden! Poor, virgin feet to have come so long a journey! Poor, mortal hands to have given such a blessing! She had been robbed and cast aside.

The cruelty of idealists! She was their victim. What did they attain? Idealists slew happiness on the altar of dreams that a future happiness might result from it. Though their dreams were mistaken, they lost nothing; they snatched their sensation of godlike righteousness. But who could restore the happiness of others which their frenzy had destroyed?

If this time Varensky had had the decency to die, she was free. He himself could take her. But would she want him? He had no attractions. All that he could offer would be to serve her. He couldn't place her back on her pinnacle of fame. Instead of crowds, he would be her only worshiper. Would that satisfy a woman who had been a saint for a day? He could promise her rest and protection. He could take her feet in his hands and guide them over rough places. And if she wanted to be a woman——

Crossing the room on tiptoe, he stood over her. Sinking to his knee, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Won't you look up? I'm not here to hurt you. I wouldn't even judge you. Life's been hard.”

When she gave no sign, he spoke again.

“I'm a man and a stranger. You're a wife. But you've told me so much. You're wounded. You can't go on by yourself.”

She moved. He knew now that she was listening.

“There's that door in the wall we were going to find. Perhaps we've found it. Let me be your friend. It would be foolish and wrong for me to tell you that I——”

She raised her head. Her hair fell back, and her eyes gazed out at him with hungry intensity. “Don't say it,” she implored. “Varensky——”

“But if he's dead? If I can bring you sure proof?”

For answer she pressed his hand against her bosom.

VII

He seated himself at her feet, his arms clasped about his knees as if crouched before a camp-fire. How much meaning had she read into his implied confession? He felt happy; happier than ever before in his life, and yet, if she were the cause of his happiness, the odds were all against him. She had promised him nothing. She could promise him nothing. All he knew of her was what she had told him. His elation might prove to be no more than an emotion that would fade in the chill light of morning.

“It would be foolish and wrong for me to tell you——” The words had risen to his lips unpremeditated. He had not realized that he cared for her until they were uttered. He had merely felt an immense compassion, an overwhelming desire to comfort her. That he should care for her at all was preposterous. It was paying her no compliment. Love that was worth the having required a more permanent incentive than physical beauty. Her mind and her character were a riddle to him. If his passion was no passing mood and she were indeed a widow, it would be her mind and her character that he might one day marry. He ought to have foreseen that something of this sort would be sure to happen between a man and woman left alone after midnight.

But the triumphant self whom she had roused in him grinned impudently at this cautious moralizing. He gloried in the magnificent unwisdom of his indiscretion. He was surprised and delighted at this newly-discovered capacity for recklessness. When experience was growing stale, he had broken through limitations and found himself gazing on an unguessed landscape where adventure commenced afresh. He could still feel the softness of her flesh against his hand. That sudden act of tenderness had altered all their relations.

He glanced up at her shyly. She, too, was dreaming. Her lips were smiling uncertainly; there was a far-away, brooding expression in her eyes. The blackness of her mourning merged with the shadows, making her seem disembodied; all he could see distinctly was the golden torrent of her hair framing the pallor of her face.

“They knelt to you in Petrograd. I don't wonder.”

“Poor people! It did them no good. I never want any one else to do it.”

“But I kneel to you. I crouch at your feet.”

“I would rather be loved than worshiped.” She restrained him gently. “Not yet.”

“Then, until I may love, I kneel to you.”

“You ought to find me repellent. No, let me speak. I own to you that I'm married, and here I sit with you alone, not knowing whether my husband lives or is buried. I must be wicked—more wicked than I guessed. Ivan was right; he used to tell me I played Satan to him. These hands, which look so soft and white, are cruel. This face, which seems so gentle, is a lie. This hair, which makes a pillow for your head, is a snare. One good man has already cast me aside. Rather than love me, he preferred death. And you are good. How near I came to killing you!” She bent over him, taking his face between her hands. “You! Do you understand?” She had drawn his head back against her knees. Her lips all but touched him. He could feel the fanning of her breath. Her voice came pantingly, as though she dreaded her own question: “What can you see in me?”

“Blue eyes, like a glimpse of heaven.”

“Tell me truly.”

“What can I see?” He stared up adoringly. “A woman who's still a child. A woman who's been cheated. A woman whose arms are empty. A woman who sits outside a tomb, dreaming of life.”

“Not of life,” she corrected softly; “of being allowed to live for a man.”

“For me, perhaps?”

She smiled vaguely.

“Without knowing what kind of a man I am?”

“Do you know me?” She sat upright, gazing straight before her. “You don't even know why I brought you.”

“Why?”

“It seems strange to tell you now. It seems like a forgotten sadness, so forgotten that it might belong to some one else. And yet once it hurt. I brought you that I might win back my husband. Don't stiffen. Look up and see how I'm smiling. I was never his in your sense. I was an image in a niche, whose hands he kissed. I was a mascot, bringing him good luck. The woman part of me he postponed superstitiously till his cause should be won. It will never be won now.”

“But he warned you before he married you?”

She shook her head. “He made sure of me. At first I was proud to be included in his sacrifice. Then failure made it all absurd. I was sorry for him. I knew only one way to comfort him. But because he had failed, he became the more determined to deny himself. Instead of comforting him, I became his tempter. Then Santa——”

Hindwood pulled himself together and bent forward, glowering into the fire. “I can't understand all this talk of sacrifice. It sounds so confoundedly unpractical. As far as I can make out, your husband's idea of virtue was to abstain from everything that makes life worth living. He didn't profit any one by abstaining. All he did was to narrow himself. If he'd wanted to be an ascetic, why couldn't he have done the thing thoroughly and played the game? There was no need to drag you into it.”

“There was no need,” she assented quietly, “but to have me and to withstand me made him appear more dedicated. He tantalized himself with the thought of me and used me as a knife with which to gash himself. I was a part of the road to Calvary he was treading in order that Russia might be saved. It gratified his pride to make the road spectacular. Then, when we were in exile and he was no longer a power, Santa came, the ruthless idealist—his very opposite.”

“Ruthless, perhaps! But I shouldn't call her an idealist.”

“She is—an idealist who, to gain her ends, stoops to any baseness. She's an avenging angel, beautiful and sinister. She's one of the few revolutionaries who knows what she wants; because she knows, she gets it. Varensky never knew. His head was in the clouds. He lost sight of his purpose in a mist of words.”

“What does she want?” As he asked the question, he glanced back at her where she gleamed like a phantom.

“She wants——” There was a pause during which the only sound was the struggle of the distant surf. “She wants to make men pay for what they do to children. All her crimes—— She's a mother, robbed of her young; in her own fierce way, she's taken all the children of the world to her breast.”

“But men don't do anything.”

She caught his tone of puzzlement. “Oh yes. Each generation commits ferocious sins against the coming generation that can't protect itself. It's children who pay for wars and every social injustice. Men live like a marauding army, pillaging the land between birth and death. They pass on and leave to children the settlement of their reckless debts. Take this latest war; five million children in Europe alone are dying of starvation at this moment. Santa's marked down the men who are responsible for their suffering; silently, one by one, she drugs them with her beauty and exacts the penalty.”

“Prince Rogovich?”

“Probably. He was raising funds for a new carnage.”

“But where do I come in? You said that you'd brought me here to help you win your husband.”

“She's in love with Ivan. To be loved by Santa is like witnessing the signature to one's death warrant. Perhaps she's a Bolshevik agent—the only people to whom the Bolsheviks are merciful are children. Perhaps she's really in love with him. She plays with him like a cat with a mouse.”

“And he?”

“He's indifferent, as he is to every woman. Yet because she's treacherous and he wants to die, he takes her with him on many of his journeys. I hoped that if I could give you to her, she might spare him. That was before I knew you. I was beside myself with suspense. Ivan has been gone so long; to do her bidding seemed like giving him his last chance of life. She's in danger and in hiding. You're the one person who can prove her guilt. I thought that if I put you in her power, I'd place her under an obligation, so that——”

“And now?”

She covered her face with her hands. “God forgive me, it's your safety that counts—not Ivan's.” He knelt against her, plucking her hands aside. “Look at me,” he commanded. “So long as your husband lives, his safety comes first. In saving me, you might betray him. If, in snatching our happiness, we connived at his death, his shadow would always stand between us. I'm still your prisoner; I've not taken back my parole. Here's your revolver.” He drew it from his pocket and laid it on her knees. “Fulfill your bargain.”

“How?”

“Take me to Santa.”

“But Ivan—already he may be——”

“Until we know, we'll play the game by him.” When she hesitated, he added, “I wouldn't be friends with any woman who couldn't be loyal.”

Her hands groped after the revolver and found it. Forcing back her tears, she answered, “Nor would I with any man.”

Rising to his feet, he helped her to rise. “Take me to her.”

VIII

As they stepped into the garden, the first restlessness of morning was in the air. The moon had vanished. Stars were going out. Along the low level of sea-line dawn cast a sickly shadow. It was as though night were an indigo curtain behind which silver forms were moving.

She led the way across the lawn, through a door in the wall, and out on the short, crisp turf. She had thrown a cloak about her and pulled the hood over her head. It made her look cowled and elfin. It was the hour when everything is fantastic.

He had an oppressive sense of unreality, as though this were all a dream from which he would shortly rouse. He stood aloof from recent happenings and surveyed his share in them in an elderly, derisive fashion. What were all these promises that he had been exchanging like a gallant? He tried to recall his exact words. To what extent had he committed himself? He had crossed the Atlantic that he might multiply his fortune—for no other reason. He was neither an idealist nor a sentimentalist; he had realized the chance that a bankrupt Europe offered and had come to take advantage of it. What would these derelicts of the catastrophe think of him if they guessed his real purpose? They were willfully, even contemptibly, unpractical; yet their perverted unselfishness troubled his conscience. To spend half one's years in exile, like the Little Grandmother, might not correct injustice, but at least it was a brave protest. To plan to die, like Varensky, because he had failed to rescue humanity, was a counsel of despair, but it had its gleam of nobility. To assassinate, like Santa, men whose statesmanship you did not comprehend was the madness of a zealot, but she at least staked her life against theirs. Into none of these undertakings did profit enter. It was disquieting to find himself among people so determined to convert the world to altruism. The world had been like this always; it would be like this to the end. If they were once to sense who he was, they would regard him as their enemy. He was walking into danger with his eyes wide open. His wisest plan would be to sink into the shadows and take the first train back to sanity. To do that he would have to leave her.

And why not? What did he owe her? What was she to him? She belonged to another man. Waiting for him to die, or to make sure of his death, might prove a tedious business—a humiliating one, most certainly. And yet to leave her now——

She had been going on ahead—or was it his steps that had been lagging? She had halted. As he came up, he felt the firm surface of the road beneath his tread.

In the gloom she laid her hand on his arm. “If you've promised too much——”

That determined him. “I keep my promises,” he answered shortly.

Walking side by side, they struggled on against the mass of all-surrounding vagueness. It seemed like a strong, gray tide pressing on their breasts, against which they made no headway.

What was to be the upshot of it? She was guiding him to Santa. His lips twisted. It would take more than Santa to inspire him with terror. England wasn't the jungle. A man couldn't disappear unnoticed. Supposing in the next half-hour Santa were to do away with him, what would she gain by it? She would have silenced his testimony in the Rogo-vich affair, but she would have added to the evidence. If she were the woman she was painted, she would be too wary to do that. No, she would not attempt to kill him. Then what was her urgency?

Gradually night was fading. The paleness from the sea was spreading. It drove like smoke, in billowy banks of vapor, creeping low along the ground. Live things were waking. In separate, plaintive warnings, early-risen birds were calling. Across the road ahead rabbits scurried. Against the formless vacancy of sky the rounded shoulders of the uplands became discernible. He took notice of their direction. She was leading him to the abandoned camp.

“Madame Varensky.”

She started. “Not that.”

“I'm sorry. It was the only name I knew to call you. What do they usually——?”

“Anna.”

She came close like a child and stood gazing up at him.

He stooped and spoke gently. “You're a wild rose. Once more let me look into your eyes. It's so strange that you should care for me.”

“More strange to me,” she said.

He placed his hands on her shoulders. “There's something that I want you to remember. If harm comes to either of us, believe always that it was only good that I intended.”

“Whatever you brought me would be good,” she murmured.

“I wish it might.” He tumbled the hood back so that he could see her hair. “When a man loves a woman who's already married, it doesn't often bring happiness. It wouldn't be right that it should. It isn't our fault that this has happened, but it will be if we misuse it.”

“We shan't misuse it.”

“There's something else.” He groped after his words. “Before I came to you, I'd been foolish. There's no sense in regretting; if I hadn't been foolish, we shouldn't have met. I thought that I was following Santa; you can guess——”

She inclined her head.

“And there's one thing more. If your husband comes back, promise me you'll forget.”

She strained against him, so their lips were nearly touching. “Never.” She spoke fiercely. And again, “Never. Though it's years and you forget.”

His hands slipped from her shoulders, lower and lower, till his arms closed about her. “Rest,” he whispered, “if it's only for a moment, poor, tired little bird.”

Through the ghostly twilight of the autumn dawn they entered the deserted camp. Before one of the hutments she halted and tapped. She tapped again. There was no answer. Cautiously raising the latch, she peered into the room. Beckoning to him, she slipped across the threshold.

IX

The hut was empty. The floor was deep in dust. The ceiling was meshed with cobwebs. Nailed across the window, just as the soldiers had left it, a dingy curtain hung. Striking a match, he held it above his head. At the far end he made out signs of occupancy. On a shelf was a loaf of bread and near by a pitcher. In a corner, spread on the bare boards for a bed, was a wrap. He stooped; it was Santa's cloak of sables.

The match went out. He turned. “How long has she been here?”

“From the time she knew she was suspected.”

“She knew she was suspected at Plymouth. What made her motor all across England to this?” He glanced round with pity at the poverty-stricken forlornness.

“She wanted to be near.”

“What? It would be better to tell me.”

“To the road out.”

He lit a cigarette and considered. “So there are more people in it,” he said at last, “than just the few that I have met! It's an organization. I might have guessed. There are the people who helped the little old lady to visit me undetected. There are the people who entered my room in my absence. There's the foreign gentleman, who couldn't speak English, who called for Santa in his car. But if this hut is on the road out, why was she delaying?”

“For you, perhaps.”

“But she was risking her freedom every second. Why for me, Anna?”

Before he had given her time to answer, his mind had leaped to a new conjecture. “What if she's captured?”

Suddenly the tragedy of this strange woman, temple-dancer, revolutionary, avenger of children, became vivid. Her pain stung him as though he had suffered it himself. He lived again the hunted hours that must have been hers while she had listened in this dusty room. He remembered her fascination, the grayness of her eyes, the fastidiousness of her dress. What a contrast to these surroundings! How often she must have crouched by that window, watching from behind the shabby curtain for the approach of the pursuer! The men she had killed did not matter. Probably they had deserved their death. His pity was reserved for her. She had been the pampered darling of princes. Her whims had been commands to lovers who themselves were rulers.

No present had been too costly to purchase the ecstasy of her complaisance. Her body had been a jewel, guarded, coveted, irrepeatable in its beauty. Crimes had been committed for its possession. And this was her end! He heard in memory the hoarse pleading of her voice, trying vainly to convince him that love could make her good.

The woman at his side was speaking. “We heard no sound. She was armed. If they'd tried to take her, she'd have defended herself.”

His thoughts came back. “Last night. Yes. If they'd taken her in the garden. But they might have known she would be armed. Perhaps they followed her. If they traced her to this hut, they might have waited till she was sleeping——”

She shook her head. “It isn't that. She's grown tired of delaying. She's gone by the road out.”

He frowned. “That's the second time you've used the phrase. Can't you tell me plainly?”

“If it's not too late, I'll show you.”

She darted out of the hut. When he joined her in the open, she was waiting impatiently to secure the door behind him. The moment it was fastened, she set off at a run. She raced like a boy, with none of a woman's awkwardness. With an occasional backward glance, up the long deserted avenue of the camp she fled. At first he was content to follow for the pleasure he had in watching her. She was so swift and young. She was like a deer in her slenderness. Sudden eagerness had transformed her. The hood had slipped back to her shoulders; the wind of her going fluttered in her hair.

Outside the camp she bore to the left in a direction leading further afield. Over gorse and bracken dew had flung a silver net. The turf was a tapestry sewn with jewels. Larks were springing up. The keen fragrance of seaweed mingled with the honeyed perfumes of the land.

He caught up with her. “Why?” he panted.

She had no breath to waste in words. Turning on him a flushed and laughing face, she pointed ahead.

Just short of the cliff-edge, where the sheer drop began, she sank to her knees, clasping her breast. While she recovered, he gazed about him. He discovered no sign of the thing she was pursuing. The sea was blanketed in mist. Above the blurred horizon, the red eye of the sun stared at him. From the foot of the cliff came the lapping of waves. No other sound.

She had risen. He was about to speak. She pressed a finger to her lips. Taking him by the hand, she led him to the edge.

At first, as he gazed down, he saw only the crumbling face of the chalk. Then he made out a winding path descending; it seemed no broader than a track that a goat might follow.

“What is it?”

“Listen.”

She dragged excitedly on his arm.

Distinctly, above the lapping of waves, he heard the click of oars working in oar-locks. Beneath the fog a vessel was hiding. It had dropped a boat which was pulling toward the land.

“The road out,” she whispered.

“But Santa——”

She nodded. “It's not so difficult as it looks. It was used by smugglers. We use it——”

She broke off. Oars were being shipped. The prow grounded. There was a muttering of men's voices. Some sort of discussion. A pause. Then oars were put out again. The rowing recommenced, growing fainter and fainter.

X

Gone!”

She pressed against him in her gladness.

Seeing the relief in her eyes, he questioned, “What does this mean to you, Anna?”

“Safety.”

“Anything else?”

“Freedom, perhaps.”

“You mean you think that Santa had received word of your husband and that that was why——?”

“I don't want to think or mean; I only want to feel. It's as though I'd been living in a prison and the door had been flung wide. I wasn't one of them. They condemned me. In their hearts they despised me. I was too weak. I couldn't bear their cross.” She clenched her hands against her cheeks till the knuckles showed white. “What's the good of being crucified? It's so much better to live and be glad for people.”

“And Santa,” he asked, “where she's going, what will happen to her?”

She raised her face. “Pain. She'll be hounded and hunted. She's getting too well known. Prince Rogovich thought he recognized her. She'll be always escaping, rushing from hiding to hiding, till one day—— To have been loved so much and to be pushed out of life——”

Behind the mist they heard the creak of ropes running over pulleys. A gasoline engine was started. For an instant the shadow of a trawler loomed through the wall of opaqueness. The tiller was thrust over. She vanished. They stood very silently, listening and watching. In imagination Hindwood followed the vessel's course. It was not of the vessel he was thinking, but of the woman on board her. “To have been loved so much and to be pushed out of life——” If he had had the chance, what could he have done for her? She had fascinated him; but he had not loved her. She was past reclaiming. Love with a woman of her kind would have meant passion—nothing more. A fierce flame, self-consuming! A slow degrading of an emotion that was fine! Yet he was filled with pity and unreasoning remorse. Some day her enemies would overtake her—good, respectable men like Major Cleasby; the good men who by the injustice of their prejudices had made her what she was.

“It's a chapter ended,” he said quietly.

Slipping his arm through hers, as though she already belonged to him, he was turning inland toward the peace of the rolling country, when his step was arrested. He caught the sound of labored breathing and the rattle of sliding chalk. Hands groped above the edge of the cliff, searching for a holding. They were followed by the head and shoulders of a man with a face intensely white, in which a pair of pale green eyes smoldered. Lower down and out of sight a woman spoke. The voice was Santa's.