Yvonne stopped in the doorway. Ranjab was holding the curtains aside for her to enter. The tall figure of Frederic loomed up behind her, his dark face glowing in the warm light that came from the room. She had changed her dress for an exquisite orchid-coloured tea-gown of chiffon under the rarest and most delicate of lace. For an instant her gaze rested on Lydia, and then went questioningly to Brood's face. The girl's confusion had not escaped her notice. Her husband's manner was but little less convicting. Her eyes narrowed.

“Ranjab said you were expecting us,” she said slowly, with marked emphasis on the participle. She came forward haltingly, as if in doubt as to her welcome. “Are we interrupting?”

“Of course not,” said Brood, a flush of annoyance on his cheek. “Lydia is tired. I sent Ranjab down to ask Frederic to——”

Frederic interrupted, a trifle too eagerly. “I'll walk around with you, Lydia. It's raining, however. Shall I get the car out, father?”

“No, no!” cried Lydia, painfully conscious of the rather awkward situation. “And please don't bother, Freddy. I can go home alone. It's only a step.” She moved toward the door, eager to be away.

“I'll go with you,” said Frederic decisively. He stood between her and the door, an embarrassed smile on his lips. “I've got something to say to you, Lydia,” he went on, lowering his voice.

“James dear,” said Mrs Brood, shaking her finger at her husband, and with an exasperating smile on her lips, “you are working the poor girl too hard. See how late it is! And how nervous she is. Why, you are trembling, Lydia! For shame, James.”

“I am a little tired,” stammered Lydia. “We are working so hard, you know, in order to finish the———”

Brood interrupted, his tone sharp and incisive.

“The end is in sight. We're a bit feverish over it, I suppose. You see, my dear, we have just escaped captivity in Thassa. It was a bit thrilling, I fancy. But we've stopped for the night.”

“So I perceive,” said Yvonne, a touch of insolence in her voice. “You stopped, I dare say, when you heard the tread of the vulgar world approaching the inner temple. That is what you broke into and desecrated, wasn't it?”

“The inner temple at Thassa,” he said coldly.

“Certainly. The place you were escaping from when we came in.”

It was clear to all of them that Yvonne was piqued, even angry. She deliberately crossed the room and threw herself upon the couch, an act so childish, so disdainful, that for a full minute no one spoke, but stared at her, each with a different emotion.

Lydia's eyes were flashing. Her lips parted, but she withheld the angry words that rose to them.

Brood's expression changed slowly from dull anger to one of incredulity, which swiftly gave way to positive joy. His wife was jealous!

Frederic was biting his lips nervously. He allowed Lydia to pass him on her way out, scarcely noticing her, so intently was his gaze fixed upon Yvonne. When Brood followed Lydia into the hall to remonstrate, the young man sprang eagerly to his stepmother's side.

“Good Lord, Yvonne!” he whispered, “that was a nasty thing to say. What will Lydia think? By gad, is it possible that you are jealous? Of Lydia?”

“Jealous?” cried she, struggling with her fury. “Jealous of that girl? Poof! Why should I be jealous of her? She hasn't the blood of a potato!”

“I can't understand you,” he said in great perplexity. “You—you told me to-night that you are not sure that you really love him. You———”

She stopped him with a quick gesture. Her eyes were smouldering. “Where is he? Gone away with her? Go and look; do.”

“They're in the hall. I shall take her home, never fear. I fancy he's trying to explain your insinuating———”

She turned on him furiously. “Are you lecturing me? What a tempest in a teapot!”

“Lydia's as good as gold. She———”

“Then take her home at once,” sneered Yvonne. “This is no place for her.”

Frederic paled. “You're not trying to say my father would—good Lord, Yvonne, you must be crazy! Why, that is impossible! If—if I thought———” He clenched his fists and glared over his shoulder, missing the queer little smile that flitted across her face.

“You do love her then,” she said, her voice suddenly soft and caressing.

He stared at her in complete bewilderment.

“I—I—Lord, you gave me a shock!” He passed his hand across his moist forehead. “It can't be so. Why, the very thought of it———”

“I suppose I shall have to apologise to Lydia,” said she calmly. “Your father will exact it of me, and I shall obey. How does it sound, coming from me? 'I am sorry, Lydia.' Do I say it prettily?”

“I don't understand you at all, Yvonne. I adore you, and yet, by Heaven, I—I actually believe I hated you just now. Listen to me. I've been treating Lydia vilely for a long, long time, but—she's the finest, best, dearest girl in the world. You—even you, Yvonne—shall not utter a word against———”

“AÏe! What heroics!” she cried ironically. “You are splendid when you are angry, my son. Yes, you are almost as splendid as your father. He, too, has been angry with me. He, too, has made me shudder. But he, too, has forgiven me, as you shall this instant. Say it, Freddy. You do forgive me? I was mean, nasty, ugly, vile—oh, everything that's horrid. I take it all back. Now be nice to me!”

She laid her hand on his arm, an appealing little caress that conquered him in a flash. He clasped her fingers fiercely in his and mumbled incoherently as he leaned forward, drawn resistlessly nearer by the strange magic that was hers.

“You—you are wonderful,” he murmured. “I knew you'd regret what you said. You couldn't have meant it.”

She smiled, patted his hand gently, and allowed her swimming eyes to rest on his for an instant to complete the conquest. Then she motioned him away. Brood's voice was heard in the doorway. She had, however, planted an insidious thing in Frederic's mind, and it would grow.

Her husband re-entered the room, his arm linked in Lydia's. Frederic was at the table lighting a cigarette.

“You did not mean all that you said a moment ago, Yvonne,” said Brood levelly. “Lydia misinterpreted your jest. You meant nothing unkind, I am sure.”

He was looking straight into her rebellious eyes. The last gleam of defiance died out of them as he spoke.

“I am sorry, Lydia darling,” she said, and reached out her hand to the girl who approached reluctantly, uncertainly. “I confess that I was jealous. Why shouldn't I be jealous? You are so beautiful, so splendid.” She drew the girl down beside her. “Forgive me, dear.”

Lydia, whose honest heart had been so full of resentment the moment before, could not withstand the humble appeal in the voice of the penitent.

She smiled, first at Yvonne, then at Brood, and never quite understood the impulse that ordered her to kiss the warm, red lips that so recently had offended.

“James dear,” fell softly, alluringly, from Yvonne's now tremulous lips. He sprang to her side. She kissed him passionately. “Now we are all ourselves once more,” she gasped a moment later, her eyes still fixed inquiringly on those of the man beside her. “Let us be gay! Let us forget! Come, Frederic! Sit here at my feet. Lydia is not going home yet. Ranjab, the cigarettes!”

Frederic, white-faced and scowling, remained at the window, glaring out into the rain-swept night. A steady sheet of raindrops thrashed against the window-panes.

“Hear the wind!” cried Yvonne, after a single sharp glance at his tall, motionless figure. “One can almost imagine that ghosts from every graveyard in the world are whistling past our windows. Should we not rejoice? We have them safely locked outside. There are no ghosts in here to make us shiver—and—shake.”

The sentence that began so glibly trailed off in a slow crescendo, ending abruptly. Ranjab was holding the lighted taper for her cigarette. As she spoke her eyes were lifted to his dark, saturnine face. She was saying there were no ghosts when his eyes suddenly fastened on hers. In spite of herself her voice rose in response to the curious dread that chilled her heart as she looked into the shining mirrors above her. She shivered as if in the presence of death! For an incalculably brief period their gaze remained fixed and steady, each reading a mystery. Then the Hindu lowered his heavy lashes and moved away. The little by-scene did not go unnoticed by the others, although its meaning was lost.

“There's nothing to be afraid of, Yvonne,” said Brood, pressing the hand which trembled in his. “Your imagination carries you a long way. Are you really afraid of ghosts?”

She answered in a deep, solemn voice that carried conviction.

“I believe in ghosts. I believe the dead come back to us, not to flit about as we are told by superstition, but to lodge—actually to dwell—inside these warm, living bodies of ours. They come and go at will. Sometimes we feel that they are there, but—oh, who knows? Their souls may conquer ours and go on inhabiting———”

“Nonsense!” cried her husband. “Once dead, always dead, my dear.”

“Do you really believe that, James?” she demanded seriously. “Have you never felt that something that was not you was living, breathing, speaking in this earthly shell of yours? Something that was not you, I say. Something that———”

“Never!” he exclaimed quickly, but his eyes were full of the wonder that he felt.

“Frederic,” she called imperatively, “come away from that window!”

The young man joined the group. The sullen look in his face had given way to one of acute inquiry. The new note in her voice produced a strange effect upon him. It seemed like a call for help, a cry out of the darkness.

“It is raining pitchforks,” he said, as if to explain his failure to respond at the first call.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Lydia uncomfortably.

“You can't go out in the storm, my dear,” cried Yvonne, tightening her grip on the girl's arm. “Draw up a chair, Freddy. Let's be cosy.

“Really, Mrs Brood, I should go at once. Mother———”

“Your mother is in bed and asleep,” protested Yvonne.

“We should all be in bed,” said Frederic.

“A bed is a sepulchre. We bury half our lives in it, Frederic. We spend too much time in bed. Why live in our dreams when we should be enjoying to-day and not our yesterdays? Do you want to hear about the concert, James? It was wonderful. The———”

“If it was so wonderful, why did you leave before it was over?” demanded her husband, his lips straightening.

She looked at him curiously.

“How do you know that we left before it was over?”

“You have been at home since ten.”

They were all playing for time. They all realised that something sinister was attending their little conclave, unseen but vital. Each one knew that united they were safe, each against the other! Lydia was afraid because of Brood's revelations. Yvonne had sensed peril with the message delivered by Ranjab to Frederic. Frederic had come upstairs prepared for rebellion against the caustic remarks that were almost certain to come from his father. Brood was afraid of—himself! He was holding himself in check with the greatest difficulty. He knew that the smallest spark would create the explosion he dreaded and yet courted. Restraint lay heavily, yet shiftingly, upon all of them.

“Oh,” said Yvonne easily, “there were still two numbers to be played, and I loathe both of them. Frederic was ready to come away, too.”

“And Dr Hodder? Did he come away with you?” inquired Brood.

“No. He insisted on staying to the bitter end. We left him there.”

Brood laughed shortly. “I see.”

“He said he would come down with the Gunnings,” explained Yvonne, her eyes flickering. “Besides, I always feel as though I were riding in an ambulance when he is in the car. He dissected every bit of music they played to-night. Now, James dear, you know he is quite dreadful.” She said it pleadingly, poutingly.

“I offered to send the car back for him,” said Frederic, speaking for the first time.

Brood drew a long breath. His glance met Lydia's and recognised the mute appeal that lay in her eyes. He smiled faintly, and hope rose in her troubled breast.

“The Gunnings were there,” put in Yvonne, puffing more rapidly than usual at her cigarette. “They came to the box with Mr and Mrs Harbison during the intermission.”

“What spiteful things did Mrs Harbison say about me?” demanded Brood, affecting a certain lightness of manner. “A cigarette, Ranjab. She despises me, I'm sure. Didn't she ask why I was not there to look after my beautiful and much-coveted wife?”

“She said that you interested her more than any man she knew, and, of course, I considered that particularly spiteful. Her husband declared he would rather shoot with you than with any man in the world. He's very tiresome.”

“We've hunted a good bit together,” said Brood.

“Harbison says you are the most deadly shot he's ever seen,” said Frederic, relaxing slightly.

“What was it he said about your wonderful accuracy with a revolver? What was it, Frederic? Hitting a shilling at some dreadful distance—thirty yards, eh?”

“Thirty paces,” said Frederic.

“My father often spoke of your shooting with a revolver, Mr Brood,” said Lydia. “He said it was really marvellous.”

Yvonne laughed. “How interesting to have a husband who can even see as far as thirty paces. But revolver shooting is a doubtful accomplishment in these days of peace, isn't it? What is there to shoot at?”

“Mad dogs and—men,” said Brood. Lydia's look required an answer. “No, I've never shot a mad dog, Lydia.”

“Who was the young woman with the lisp, Freddy?” asked Yvonne abruptly.

“Miss Dangerfield. Isn't she amusing? I love that soft Virginia drawl of hers. She's pretty, too. Old Hodder was quite taken with her.”

A long, reverberating roll of thunder, ending in an ear-splitting crash that seemed no farther away than the window casement behind them, brought sharp exclamations of terror from the lips of the two women. The men, appalled, started to their feet.

“Good Lord, that was close!” cried Frederic. “There was no sign of a storm when we came in—just a steady, gentle spring rain.”

“I am frightened,” shuddered Yvonne, wide-eyed with fear. “Do you think———”

“It struck near by, that's all,” said Brood. “Lightning bolts are deceptive. One may think they strike at one's very elbow, and yet the spot is really miles away. I hope your mother is not distressed, my dear,” turning to Lydia. “She is afraid of the lightning, I know.”

Lydia sprang to her feet. “I must go home at once, Mr Brood. She will be dreadfully frightened. I——”

There came another deafening crash. The glare filled the room with a brilliant, greenish hue. Ranjab was standing at the window, holding the curtains apart while he peered upward across the space that separated them from the apartment building beyond the court.

“Take me home, Frederic!” cried Lydia frantically. She ran toward the door.

“Let me telephone to your mother, Lyddy,” he cried, hurrying after her into the hall.

“No! no! no!” she gasped as she ran. “Don't come with me if you——”

“I will come!” he exclaimed, as they raced down the stairs. “Don't be frightened, darling. It's all right. Listen to me! Mrs Desmond is as safe as———”

“Oh, Freddy, Freddy!” she wailed, breaking under a strain that he was not by way of comprehending. “Oh, Freddy dear!” Her nerves gave way. She was sobbing convulsively when they came to the lower hall.

In great distress he clasped her in his arms, mumbling incoherent words of love, encouragement—even ridicule for the fear she betrayed. Far from his mind was the real cause of her unhappy plight.

He held her close to his breast, and there she sobbed and trembled as with a mighty, racking chill. Her fingers clutched his arm with the grip of one who clings to the edge of a precipice with death below. Her face was buried against his shoulder.

“There! There!” he murmured, appalled by this wild display of fear. “Don't worry, darling. Everything is all right. Oh, you dear, dear girlie! Please, please! My little Lyddy!”

“Take me home, Freddy—take me home,” she whispered brokenly. “I cannot stay here another second. Come, dearest—come home with me.”

Still they stood there in the dark hall, clasped in each other's arms—stood there for many minutes without realising the lapse of time, thinking not of Mrs Desmond nor the storm that raged outside, but of the storm they were weathering together with the lightning racing through their veins, thunder in their heart-beats.

A footstep in the hall. Frederic looked up, dazed, bewildered. Jones, the butler, was retreating through a door near by, having come upon them unexpectedly.

“I—I beg pardon, sir. I———”

“Oh, Jones! Listen! My raincoat—and father's, quick. And Miss Lydia's things. Yes, yes, it's all right, Jones. It's quite all right.” Frederic was calling out the sentences jerkily.

“Quite all right,” repeated Jones, his throat swelling, his eyes suddenly dim. “Quite, sir. Yes, yes!” He rushed into the closet at the end of the hall, more grievously upset than he ever had been in all his life before.

“You will come with me, Freddy?” she was whispering, clinging to him as one in panic.

“Yes, yes. Don't be frightened, Lyddy. I—I know everything is all right now. I'm sure of it.”

“Oh, I am sure, too, dear. I have always been sure,” she cried, and he understood, as she had understood.

Despite the protests of Jones they dashed out into the blighting thunderstorm. The rain beat down in torrents, the din was infernal. As the door closed behind them Lydia, in the ecstasy of freedom from restraint bitterly imposed, gave vent to a shrill cry of relief. Words, the meaning of which he could not grasp, babbled from her lips as they descended the steps. One sentence fell vaguely clear from the others, and it puzzled him. He was sure that she said:

“Oh, I am so glad, so happy we are out of that house—you and I together.”

Close together, holding tightly to each other, they breasted the swirling sheets of rain. The big umbrella was of little protection to them, although held manfully to break the force of the cold flood of waters. They bent their strong young bodies against the wind, and a sort of wild, impish hilarity took possession of them. It was freedom, after all! They were fighting a force in nature that they understood, and the sharp, staccato cries that came from their lips were born of an exultant glee which neither of them could have suppressed or controlled. Their hearts were as wild as the tempest about them.

They turned the corner and were flanked by the wind and rain. The long raincoats flattened their sleek, dripping folds tightly against their bodies. It was almost impossible to push forward into this mad deluge. The umbrella, caught by a gust, was turned inside out, and the full force of the storm struck upon their faces, almost taking the breath away. And they laughed as their arms tightened about each other. As one person they breasted the gale.

They were fairly blown through the doors of the apartment-house. Mrs Desmond threw open the door as their wet, soggy feet came sloshing down the hall. Frederic's arm was about Lydia as they approached, and both of their drenched faces were wreathed in smiles—gay, exalted smiles. The mother, white-faced and fearful, stared for a second at the amazing pair, and then held out her arms to them.

She was drenched in their embrace, but no one thought of the havoc that was being created in that swift, impulsive contact.

“It's a fine mess we've made of your rug, Mrs Desmond,” said Frederic ruefully a few minutes later.

“Goodness!” cried Lydia, aghast. Then they all realised.

“Take those horrid things off at once, both of you,” commanded Mrs Desmond. Her voice trembled. “And your shoes—and stockings. Dear, dear!”

“I must run back home!” exclaimed Frederic.

Lydia placed herself between him and the door.

“No! I want you to stay!” she cried.

“Stay?”

“You shall not go out in that dreadful storm again. I will not let you go, Frederic. Stay—stay here with me.”

He stared. “What a funny idea!”

“Wait until the rain is over,” added Mrs Desmond.

“No, no!” cried Lydia. “I mean for him to stay here the rest of the night. We can put you up, Freddy. I—I don't want you to go back there until—until to-morrow.”

A glad light broke in his face. “By Jove, I—do you know, I'd like to stay? I—I really would, Mrs Desmond. Can you find a place for me?” His voice was eager, his eyes sparkling.

“Yes,” said the mother quietly, almost serenely. “You shall have Lydia's bed, Frederic. She can come in with me. Yes, you must stay. Are you not our Frederic?”

“Thank you,” he stammered, and his eyes fell.

“I will telephone to Jones when the storm abates,” said Mrs Desmond. “Now get out of those coats, and—oh, dear, how wet you are! A hot drink for both.”

“Would you mind asking Jones to send over something for me to wear in the morning?” said Frederic, grinning as he stood forth in his evening clothes.

Ten minutes later, in a dressing-gown and bare feet, he sat with them before an open fire and sipped the toddy she had brewed.

“I say, this is great!”

Lydia was suddenly shy and embarrassed.

“Good night,” she whispered. Her fingers brushed his cheek lightly.

He drew her down to him and kissed her passionately.

“Good night, my Lyddy!” he said softly, his cheek flushing.

She went quickly from the room.

Later he stood in her sweet, dainty little bedroom and looked about him with a feeling of mingled awe and wonder. All of her intimate, exquisite belongings, the sanctified treasures of her most secret domain, were all about him.

He fingered the articles on her dressing-table; smelled of the perfume bottles and smiled as he recognised the sweet odours as being a part of her, and not a thing unto themselves; grinned delightedly at his own photograph in its silver frame that stood where she could see it the last thing at night and the first in the morning; caressed—aye, caressed—the little hand-mirror that had reflected her gay or troubled face so many times since the dear Christmas Day when he had given it to her with his love.

He stood beside her bed where she had stood, and the soft rug seemed to respond to the delightful tingling that ran through his bare feet. Her room! Her bed! Her domain!

Suddenly he dropped to his knees and buried his hot face in the cool white sheets and kissed them over and over again. Here was sanctuary! His eyes were wet with tears when he arose to his feet, and his arms went out to the closed door.

“My Lyddy!” he whispered chokingly.

Back there in the rose-hued light of James Brood's study Yvonne cringed and shook in the strong arms of her husband all through that savage storm. She was no longer the defiant, self-possessed creature he had come to know so well, but a shrinking, trembling child, stripped of all her bravado, all her arrogance, all her seeming guile. A pathetic whimper crooned from her lips in response to his gentle words of reassurance. She was afraid—desperately afraid—and she crept close to him in her fear.

And he? He was looking backward to another who had nestled close to him and whimpered as she was doing now—another who lived in terror when it stormed.