A sense of faintness crept over her. By some strange prescience, she knew who stood behind there in the darkness, concealed, listening. A great horror took possession of her. Why should he haunt her so? What was she to him? He who had a living wife!

She turned to Dillwyn, who had risen too.

"Come back to the house," said she. Her voice was nervous, but very low. She moved away from the seat, on which she had been resting, with a haste that was almost feverish. Dillwyn followed her, his mind disturbed. Had she fathomed his determination to speak to her, and had she purposely prevented his speaking? He went at once to the point, as he always did when uncertain or perplexed.

"Have I offended you?" asked he.

"No! Oh, no! You must not think that. How could you have offended me? But I thought I heard some one—there—behind the shrubs."

"But even so, there are people all over the place to-night."

"Yes, I know." Her tone now was almost heartbroken. She stopped suddenly and held out her hand to him. "You are still my friend?" said she.

"I shall be your friend to the last day of my life," said Dillwyn. But his tone was heavy; the elasticity that always distinguished it had gone out of it for the first time.

In silence they reached the house. Not another word was said about the dance impending. Agatha seeing a couch surrounded by fragrant shrubs, went towards it.

"The dance has begun," said Dillwyn, but so coldly that she shrank from him.

"I am tired," she said.

"Then you had better rest here. Shall I bring you an ice?"

"Thank you."

He went away. Agatha dropped on to the lounge and gave her misery full play. She had put an end to it all—all that might have made her dull life a very spring of joy. And yet to tell the man who loved her that another man—a married man—pursued her with his hateful attentions was more than she could do.

Now, left alone, her spirit failed her, and her eyes filled with tears. She would have given all she possessed to be at home, in her own room, alone, so that her grief might have full sway. She almost hoped he would not come back with the ice. She dreaded the coldness of his regard more than his absence. She—-

"Can I do anything for you, Miss Nesbitt?"

Dr. Darkham stood beside her. It was to Agatha as though he had risen from the dead. She had supposed him still outside in the garden. But he had followed her apparently.

"No, thank you," she said, in a voice well kept in order.

"You are not dancing, then?"

"Not for the moment."

"Your partner is Dr. Dillwyn?"

"Yes."

"He was your partner for the last two, I think?"

Agatha roused herself. She looked full at him; there was a smile upon her beautiful lips.

"Ah, Dr. Darkham, I have already a chaperon!" said she.

"A most inefficient one," said Darkham steadily. "Why should you be allowed to listen to the solicitations of a mere beggar? Were your aunt to hear of this—-"

"My aunt!"

Agatha looked up at him, but after that one swift glance drew back. What was there in his eyes? Oh, horrible! Surely, surely now she knew that she was not wrong when lately she told herself in shrinking whispers that this man was in love with her. There had been something so strange in the expression of his eyes when looking at her—something so empressÉ in his manner— something so downright hateful in the inflection of his voice.

"My aunt is quite capable of looking after me without the interference of any one," said Agatha slowly. "You have been very kind to Mrs. Greatorex, but you must not extend your kindness to me. I want no other guardian but my aunt." She rose and looked him straight in the face. "Pray do not trouble yourself about my welfare for the future."

She passed him and went on; she saw Dillwyn coming towards her with the ice; she had believed she would rather not have seen him return, but now she went to him gladly.

Darkham fell slowly into the chair she had just left. That girl —her face, her form—they haunted him. And side by side with hers always grew another face, another form—that of his wife! What vile fiend had arranged his marriage? A mere mockery of marriage, where hatred alone was the link that bound the two.

Gold that had given a false brilliancy to the faded yellow of her hair, and thrown a gleaming into her light, lustreless eyes. Had he but waited, had he but relied upon himself and given his undoubted genius a chance, he might have risen, unaided, to the highest point, and been now free to marry the woman he loved.

With wild, increasing exultation he remembered how she had risen to-night out there in the shrubberies as Dillwyn was on the point of proposing to her. She had cast him off in a sense. Gently, though. She was always kind and gentle. But she certainly put him off; she did not care for him, then.

Darkham's face glowed as he sat there in the conservatory.

If this woman to whom he was tied was gone—dead! Then his chance might come. If she did not care for Dillwyn—why, she might care for him. At present how could she?

"Why don't you come out and look at her?" said the coarse voice he dreaded at his ear; "she's dancing with Dillwyn. She dances lovely—'specially with Dillwyn."