Somehow, she was in Julia's work-room. Somehow, she had reached home before Ronnie. To get home before Ronnie! That had been her one panic ever since leaving Hector.

Of her parting with Hector, with the admiral; of her scurry through the Temple; of her taxi chugging, chugging, chugging down the Embankment, chugging up Northumberland Avenue, chugging through Trafalgar Square, of her taxi blocked in the Haymarket, of herself calling frantically through the window, "Don't go up the Haymarket," of their sweep along Pall Mall, up St. James's Street and along Piccadilly, Aliette remembered nothing. She knew only that there was hope--a gleam of hope for them all, for Ronnie's child, for Ronnie, for herself, for Hector; knew only that she must act--act at once--before Ronnie came home.

Perhaps Ronnie was home already. Perhaps he had gone upstairs to dress. Perhaps he had heard her let herself in with her latch-key.

A key! If only there were a key, so that she might lock herself in Julia's work-room.

A key! If only there were a key, so that she might open Julia's desk. How the fire glowed on the red mahogany, on the yellow brass of the desk! How the fire crackled, crackled!

She must break open the desk. Break it open before Ronnie could stop her. She must save Ronnie--save Hector. They were only men. Men of the law--of man's law. Men only talked. She, the mother, must act--act!

Now, in the fraction of a second, Aliette was at the fireplace. Now she had seized the bright steel poker in both hands. Now she was at the desk. Now she had inserted the poker through the ormolu handle of the drawer in the pedestal of the desk. Now--gingerly--she levered her poker against the mahogany rim of the desk.

But the locked drawer would not open. Stubbornly its lock fought against her lever. Panic gripped her by the throat. She must be quick--quick. Suppose Ronnie were home, suppose Ronnie heard? Ronnie would hate her--hate her for damaging his mother's desk. Julia's beautiful desk. Never mind--never mind the desk.

Frantically, her hands dragged at the poker. The mahogany splintered and splintered. God! what a noise she was making. Would the lock never yield?

Her eyes blurred. Her breasts ached. Her wrists ached. She could feel sweat under her armpits, feel the breath whistling through her lips. She was beaten, beaten. She would not be beaten--she would conquer the stubbornness of that lock. Conquer it.

Teeth set, little hands steel on steel, Aliette propped both feet against the pedestal, and flung back her full weight from the lever.

The poker was bent in her hands, the mahogany desk-top splintered to white slivers. But the lock had yielded, the drawer stood out open from its pedestal. There--there lay the will, the will Sir Peter had told her she must burn. Quickly, she snatched at it. Quickly, she dashed to the fireplace, dashed it on the fire. Quickly, she snatched up the shovel, pressed the will down among the flames.

But the flames would not kindle. The thick parchment would not take fire. It would only curl--curl. The words on the curling parchment hypnotized her. "Twenty thousand pounds for the benefit of Aliette, nÉe Fullerford, at present the wife of----"

Slowly, slowly, the parchment was kindling.

But even as Aliette's eyes saw the parchment blacken to the flames, her ears caught the sound of a key in the lock of the front door, of the door closing, of feet--Ronnie's feet--coming swiftly down the passage.

"Alie, Alie! I say, darling, are you in the library?"

And a second afterward he stood in the doorway. She knew that he was eying the desk, eying her back as she stooped to hurry her work.

"What are you doing?"

Aliette neither looked up nor answered. Her thoughts were all for the flames--for the blessed consuming flames.

"What are you burning?"

He sprang across the room at her; and the shovel dropped with a clatter from her nerveless fingers.

Turning, she faced him. He put out an arm as though to fend her from the fire. She seized his arm with both hands, crying, "You're not to. You're not to."

He struggled with her; but she fought him, fought him away from the fire. Behind her, in the flames, the last shred of parchment charred to stiff black ashes.

"Alie"--the loved face was a blur before her eyes, the loved voice a far-away whisper in her ear--"Alie--what have you done? You haven't burnt it? You haven't burnt my mother's book?"

"No. Not the book. Sir Peter says we can alter the book. But we can't alter the will. I had to burn the will, because--because of Dennis."

"Dennis?"

"Yes. Dennis. Our boy, Dennis." Suddenly, the loved face went black, black as charred parchment before her eyes. "I only did it for the boy, Ronnie. Can't you understand?"

Holding her, fainted, in his arms, Ronald Cavendish understood a little of his own unworthiness.

EPILOGUE