Lydia stopped for a moment in the hall, after closing the door behind her, to pull herself together for the ordeal that was still to come. She was trembling; a weakness had assailed her. She had left Yvonne's presence in a dazed, unsettled condition of mind.

There was a lapse of some kind that she could neither account for nor describe even to herself. She tried to put it into seconds and minutes, and then realised that it was not a matter to be reckoned as time. Yet there had been a distinct, unmistakable gap in her existence. Something had stopped—she knew not for how long—and then she had found herself breathing, thinking once more. In spite of the conviction that she had passed through a period of utter oblivion, she could account for every second of time with an absolute clearness of memory.

There was not an instant, nor a sensation, nor an impulse that was not fully recorded in her alert brain. She remembered everything; she could have described every emotion; and yet she felt that there had been a period of complete absence, as real as it was improbable.

She felt now as she always felt after sipping champagne—in a warm glow of intoxication. She was drunk with the scent that filled her nostrils, the scent that lay on her lips, that lived and breathed with her. Her heart was throbbing rapidly, as if earnestly seeking to regain the beats that it had lost.

Suddenly there came to her an impulse to go back and lay bare before Yvonne all of the wretched story that had fallen from the lips of James Brood the night before. She conceived the strange notion that Yvonne alone could avert the disaster, that she could be depended upon to save Frederic from the blow that seemed so sure to fall. She even went so far as to turn toward the door and to take a step in its direction.

Then came the revolt against the impulse. Was it fair to Frederic? Had she the right to reveal this ugly thing to one whose sympathies might, after all, be opposed to the wife who had preceded her in James Brood's affections—the wife who had been first in his heart, and whose memory, for all she knew, might still be a worthy adversary even in this day of apparent supremacy?

What right had she to conclude that this woman would take up the cause of Frederic's mother and jeopardise her own position by seeking to put her husband in the wrong in that unhappy affair of long ago? Would Yvonne do this for Frederic? Would she do all this for Frederic's mother?

Lydia turned away and went slowly toward the stairs, despising herself for the thought. The black velvet coat that formed a part of her trig suit hung limply in her hand, dragging along the floor as she moved with hesitating steps in the direction of James Brood's study. A sickening estimate of her own strength of purpose confronted her. She was suddenly afraid of the man who had always been her friend. Somehow she felt that he would turn upon and rend her, this man who had always been gentle and considerate—and who had killed things!

She found herself at last standing stock-still at the bottom of the steps, looking upward, trying to concentrate all of her determination on what now appeared to her to be an undertaking of the utmost daring, as one who risks everything in an encounter in the dark.

Ranjab appeared at the head of the stairs. She waited for his signal to ascend, somehow feeling that Brood had sent him forth to summon her. Her hand sought the stair-rail and gripped it tightly. Her lips parted in a stiff smile. Now she knew that she was turning coward, that she longed to put off the meeting until to-morrow—to-morrow!

The Hindu came down the stairs, quickly, noiselessly.

“The master say to come to-morrow, to-morrow as usual,” he said, as he paused above her on the steps.

“It—it must be to-day,” she said doggedly, even as the chill of relief shot through her.

“To-morrow,” said the man. His eyes were kindly inquiring. “Sahib say you are to rest.” There was a pause. “To-morrow will not be too late.”

She started. Had he read the thought that was in her mind?

“Thank you, Ranjab,” she said, after a moment of indecision. “I will come to-morrow.”

Then she slunk downstairs and out of the house, convinced that she had failed Frederic in his hour of greatest need, that to-morrow would be too late.

Frederic did not come in for dinner until after his father and Yvonne had gone from the house. He did not inquire for them, but instructed Jones to say to the old gentlemen that he would be pleased to dine with them if they could allow him the time to “change.” He also told Jones to open a single bottle of champagne and to place three glasses.

“If you please, sir, Mrs Brood has given strict orders——”

“That's all right, Jones. She won't mind for to-night. We expect to drink the health of the bride, Jones.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is to say, my bride.”

“Your bride, Mr Frederic?”

“I'm going to be married.”

“Bless my soul, sir!”

“You seem surprised.”

“Ahem! I should 'ave said, 'God be praised,' sir.”

“Now that I think of it, don't mention it to Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs. Let me make the announcement, Jones.”

“Certainly, sir. It is most confidential, of course. Bless my—I mean to say, Golden Seal, sir?”

“Any old thing, Jones.”

“May I offer my congratulations, Mr Frederic? Thank you, sir. Ahem! Aw—ahem! Anyways soon, sir?”

“Very soon, Jones.”

“Bless—very good, sir. Of course, if I may be so bold as to inquire, sir, it's—it's—ahem?”

“Certainly, Jones. Who else could it be?”

“To be sure, sir, it couldn't be anyone else. Thank you, sir. Yes, sir. She is the finest young lady in this 'ere world, Mr Frederic. You did say Golden Seal, Cliquot, ninety-eight, sir? It's the best in the 'ouse, sir, quite the best at present.”

Later on Frederic made his announcement to the old men. In the fever of an excitement that caused him to forget that Lydia might be entitled to some voice in the matter, he deliberately committed her to the project that had become a fixed thing in his mind the instant he set foot in the house and found it empty—oh, so empty!

Jones's practised hand shook slightly as he poured the wine. The old men drank rather noisily. They, too, were excited. Mr Riggs smacked his lips and squinted at the chandelier, as if trying to decide upon the vintage, but in reality doing his best to keep from coughing up the wine that had gone the wrong way in a moment of profound paralysis.

“The best news I've heard since Judas died,” said Mr Dawes manfully. “Fill 'em up again, Jones. I want to propose the health of Mrs Brood.”

“The future Mrs Brood,” hissed Mr Riggs wheezily, glaring at his comrade. “Ass!”

“I'm not married yet, Mr Dawes,” explained Frederic, grinning.

“Makes no difference,” said Mr Dawes stoutly. “Far as I'm concerned, you are. We'll be the first to drink to Lydia Brood! The first to call her by that name, gentlemen. God bless her!”

“God bless her!” shouted Mr Riggs.

“God bless her!” echoed Frederic, and they drained their glasses to Lydia Brood.

“Jones, open another bottle,” commanded Mr Dawes loftily.

Frederic shook his head, and two faces fell. Right bravely, however, the old men maintained a joyous interest in the occasion. They expounded loudly upon the virtues and graces of John Desmond's daughter; they plied the young man with questions and harangued him with advice; they threatened him with hell-fire if he ever gave the girl a minute of unhappiness; they were very firm in their contention that he “oughtn't to let the grass grow under his feet,” not for an instant! In the end they waxed tearful. It was quite too much joy to be borne with equanimity.

The young man turned moody, thoughtful; the unwonted exhilaration died as suddenly as it had come into existence. A shadow crossed his vision and he followed it with his thoughts. The gabbling of the old men irritated him as the makeshift feast of celebration grew old, and he made no pretence of keeping up his end of the conversation.

The gloomy, uneasy look deepened in his face. It was a farce, after all, this attempt to glorify an impulse conceived in desperation. A sense of utter loneliness came over him with a swiftness that sickened, nauseated him. The food was flat to his taste; he could not eat. Self-commiseration stifled him. He suddenly realised that he had never been so lonely, so unhappy, in all his life as he was at this moment.

His thoughts were of his father. A vast, inexplicable longing possessed his soul—a longing for the affection of this man who was never tender, who stood afar off and was lonely, too. He could not understand this astounding change of feeling. He had never felt just this way before. There had been times—and many—when his heart was sore with longing, but they were of other days, childhood days. To-night he could not crush out the thought of how ineffably happy, how peaceful life would be if his father were to lay his hands upon his shoulders and say: “My son, I love you—I love you dearly.” There would be no more lonely days; all that was bitter in his life would be swept away in the twinkling of an eye; the world would be full of joy for him and for Lydia.

If anyone had told him an hour earlier that he would have been possessed of such emotions as these he could have sneered in the face of him. When he entered the house that evening he was full of resentment toward his father and sullen with the remains of an ugly rage. And now to be actually craving the affection of the man who humbled him, even in the presence of servants. It was unbelievable. He could not understand himself. A wonderful, compelling tenderness filled his heart. He longed to throw himself at his father's feet and crave his pardon for the harsh, vengeful thoughts he had spent upon him in those black hours. He hungered for a word of kindness or of understanding on which he could feed his starving soul. He wanted his father's love. He wanted, more than anything else in the world, to love his father.

Lydia slipped out of his mind, Yvonne was set aside in that immortal moment. He had not thought of them except in their relation to a completed state of happiness for his father. Indistinctly he recognised them as essentials.

In the library, later on, he smoked with the old men, moodily staring up through the blue clouds into a space that seemed limitless. The expression of pain, and the self-pity that attended it, increased in his eyes. The old men rambled on, but he scarcely heard them. They wrangled, and he was not impatient with them. He was lonely. He felt deserted, forsaken. The sweet companionship of the day just closing stood for naught in this hour of a deeper longing. He wanted to hear his father say, from his heart: “Frederic, my son, here is my hand. It is no longer against you.”

Aye, he was lonely. The house was as bleak as the steppes of Siberia. He longed for companionship, friendship, kindness, and suddenly in the midst of it all he leaped to his feet.

“I'm going out, gentlemen,” he exclaimed, breaking in upon an unappreciated tale that Mr Riggs was relating at some length and with considerable fierceness in view of the fact that Mr Dawes had pulled him up rather sharply once or twice in a matter of inaccuracies. “Excuse me, please.”

He left them gaping with astonishment and dashed out into the hall for his coat and hat. Even then he had no definite notion as to what his next move would be, save that he was going out—somewhere, anywhere; he did not care. All the time he was employed in getting into his light overcoat his eyes were fixed on the front door, and in his heart was the strange, indescribable hope that it would open to admit his father, who, thinking of him in his loneliness and moved by a suddenly aroused feeling of love, had abandoned an evening of selfish pleasure in order to spend it with him.

And if his father should walk in, with eagerness in his long unfriendly eyes, what joy it would be for him to rush up to him and cry out: “Father, let's be happy! Let's make each other happy!”

Somehow, as he rushed down the front steps with the cool night air blowing in his face, there surged up within him a strong, overpowering sense of filial duty. It was his duty to make the first advances. It was for him to pave the way to peace and happiness. Something vague but disturbing tormented him with the fear that his father faced a great peril and that his own place was beside him and not against him, as he had been for all these illy directed years. He could not put it away from him, this thought that his father was in danger—in danger of something that was not physical, something from which, with all his valour, he had no adequate form of defence.

At the corner he paused, checked by an irresistible impulse to look backward at the house he had just left. To his surprise there was a light in the drawing-room windows facing the street. The shade in one of them had been thrown wide open and a stream of light flared out across the sidewalk.

Standing in this stream of light was the figure of a man. Slowly, as if drawn by a force he could not resist, the young man retraced his steps until he stood directly in front of the window. A questioning smile was on his lips. He was looking up into Ranjab's shadowy, unsmiling face, dimly visible in the glow from the distant street-lamp. For a long time they stared at each other, no sign of recognition passing between them. The Hindu's face was as rigid, as emotionless as if carved out of stone; his eyes were unwavering. Frederic could see them, even in the shadows. He had the queer feeling that, though the man gave no sign, he had something he wanted to say to him, that he was actually calling to him to come back into the house.

Undecided, the man outside took several halting steps toward the doorway, his gaze still fixed on the face in the window. Then he broke the spell. It was a notion on his part, he argued, If he had been wanted, his father's servant would have beckoned to him. He would not have stood there like a graven image, staring out into the night.

Having convinced himself of this, Frederic wheeled and swung off up the street once more, walking rapidly, as one who is pursued. Turning, he waved his hand at the man in the window. He received no response. Farther off, he looked back once more. The Hindu still was there. Long after he was out of sight of the house he cast frequent glances over his shoulder, as if still expecting to see the lighted window and its occupant.

Blocks away, in his hurried, aimless flight, he slackened his pace and began to wonder whither he was going. He had no objective point in mind. He was drifting. His footsteps lagged and he looked about him for marks of locality. Union Square lay behind him, and beyond, across Eighteenth Street, was the Third Avenue Elevated. He had not meant to come in this direction. It was not his mind alone that wandered.

As he made his way back to Broadway, somewhat hazily bent on following that thoroughfare up to the district where the night glittered and the stars were shamed, he began turning over in his mind a queer notion that had just suggested itself to him, filtering through the maze of uncertainty in which he had been floundering. It occurred to him that he had been mawkishly sentimental in respect to his father. He was seriously impressed by the feelings that had mastered him, but he found himself ridiculing the idea that his father stood in peril of any description. And suddenly, out of no particular trend of thought, groped the sly, persistent suspicion that he had not been altogether responsible for the sensations of an hour ago. Some outside influence had moulded his emotions, some cunning brain had been doing his thinking for him!

Then came the sharp recollection of that motionless, commanding figure in the lighted window, and his own puzzling behaviour on the side-walk outside. He recalled his impression that someone has called out to him just before he turned to look up at the window. It was all quite preposterous, he kept on saying over and over again to himself, and yet he could not shake off the uncanny feeling.

Like a shot there flashed into his brain the startling question: was Ranjab the solution? Was it Ranjab's mind and not his own that had moved him to such tender resolves? Could such a condition be possible? Was there such a thing as mind control?

He laughed aloud, and was startled by the sound of his own voice. The idea was preposterous! Such a thing could not have been possible. They were his own thoughts, his own emotions, coming from his own brain, his own heart.

An hour later Frederic approached the box-office of the theatre mentioned by Yvonne over the telephone that morning. The play was half over and the house was sold out. He bought a ticket of admission, however, and lined up with others who were content to stand at the back to witness the play.

He had walked past the theatre three or four times before finally making up his mind to enter, and even then his intentions were not quite clear. He only knew that he was consciously committing an act that he was ashamed of, an act so inexcusable that his face burned as he thought of the struggle he had had with himself up to the moment he stood at the box-office window.

Inside the theatre he leaned weakly against the railing at the back of the auditorium and wiped his brow. What was it that had dragged him there against his will, in direct opposition to his dogged determination to shun the place? The curtain was up, the house was still, save for the occasional coughing of those who succumb to a habit that can neither be helped nor explained.

There were people moving on the stage, but Frederic had no eyes for them. He was seeking in the darkness for the two figures that he knew were somewhere in the big, tense throng.

Hundreds of backs confronted him, no faces. A sensation not far removed from stealth took possession of him. His searching eyes were furtive in their quest. If he had been lonely before, he was doubly so now. The very presence of the multitude filled him with a sickening sense of emptiness. He was friendless there, with all those contented backs for company. Not one among them all had a thought for him, not one turned so much as an inch from the engrossing scene that held them in its grip. Straight, immovable, unresponsive backs—nothing but backs!

Again he asked of himself, why was he there? And he pitied himself so vastly that his throat contracted as with pain. His soul sickened. The truth was being revealed to him as he stood there and with aching eyes searched throughout the serried rows of backs. It came home to him all of a sudden that his quest was a gleaming white back and a small, exquisitely poised head crowned with black.

With a sharp execration, a word of disgust for himself, he tore himself away from the railing and rushed toward the doors. At the same instant a tremendous burst of applause filled the house and he whirled just in time to see the curtain descending. Curiously interested, he paused near the door, his gaze fixed on the great velvet wall that rose and fell at least a half-dozen times in response to the clamour of the delighted crowd.

The backs all at once seemed to become animated and friendly. He drew near the last row of seats again and stared at the actor and the actress who came out to take the “curtain-call”—stared as if at something he had never seen before.

And they had been up there all the time, developing the splendid climax that had drawn people out of their seats, that had put life into all those insufferable backs.

The lights went up and the house was bright. Men began scurrying up the aisles. Here and there broad, black backs rose up in the centre of sections and moved tortuously toward the aisles. Pretty soon, when the theatre was dark again and the curtain up, they would return, politely hiss something about being sorry or “Don't get up, please,” and even more tortuously move into their places, completing once more the sullen, arrogant row of backs.

Frederic experienced a sudden shock of dismay. It was not at all unlikely that his father would be among those heading for the lobby, although the chance was remote. His father was the peculiar type of gentleman, now almost extinct, that subsists without fresh air quite as long as the lady who sits in the seat beside him. He was a bit old-fashioned for a New Yorker, no doubt, but he was rather distinguished for his good manners. In fact, he was almost unique. He would not leave Yvonne between the acts, Frederic was quite sure. In spite of this, the young man discreetly hid himself behind two stalwart figures and watched the aisles with alert, shifty eyes.

Presently the exodus was over and the danger past. He moved up to the railing again and resumed his eager scrutiny of the throng. He could not find them. At first he was conscious of disappointment, then he gave way to an absurd rage. Yvonne had misled him, she had deceived him—aye, she had lied to him. They were not in the audience, they had not even contemplated coming to this theatre. He had been tricked, deliberately tricked.

No doubt they were seated in some other place of amusement, serenely enjoying themselves.

The thought of it maddened him. And then, just as he was on the point of tearing out of the house, he saw them, and the blood rushed to his head so violently that he was almost blinded.

He caught sight of his father far down in front, and then the dark, half-obscured head of Yvonne. He could not see their faces, but there was no mistaking them for anyone else. He only marvelled that he had not seen them before, even in the semi-darkness. They now appeared to be the only people in the theatre; he could see no one else.

James Brood's fine, aristocratic head was turned slightly toward his wife, who, as Frederic observed after changing his position to one of better advantage, apparently was relating something amusing to him. They undoubtedly were enjoying themselves. Once more the great, almost suffocating wave of tenderness for his father swept over him, mysteriously as before and as convincing. He experienced a sudden, inexplicable feeling of pity for the strong, virile man who had never revealed the slightest symptoms of pity for him. The same curious desire to put his hands on his father's shoulders and tell him that all was well with them came over him again.

Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder, and the fear was in his heart that somewhere in the shifting throng his gaze would light upon the face of Ranjab.

Long and intently his searching gaze went through the crowd, seeking the remote corners and shadows of the foyer, and a deep breath of relief escaped him when it became evident that the Hindu was not there. He had, in a measure, proved his own cause; his emotions were genuinely his own and not the outgrowth of an influence for good exercised over him by the Brahmin.

He began what he was pleased to term a systematic analysis of his emotions covering the entire evening, all the while regarding the couple in the orchestra chairs with a gaze unswerving in its fidelity to the sensation that now controlled him—a sensation of impending peril.

All at once he slunk farther back into the shadow, a guilty flush mounting to his cheek. Yvonne had turned and was staring rather fixedly in his direction. Despite the knowledge that he was quite completely concealed by the intervening group of loungers, he sustained a distinct shock. He had the uncanny feeling that she was looking directly into his eyes. She had turned abruptly, as if someone had called out to attract her attention and she had obeyed the sudden impulse. A moment later her calmly impersonal gaze swept on, taking the sections to her right and the balcony, and then went back to her husband's face.

Frederic was many minutes in recovering from the effects of the queer shock he had received. He could not get it out of his head that she knew he was there, that she actually turned in answer to the call of his mind. She had not searched for him; on the contrary, she directed her gaze instantly to the spot where he stood concealed.

Actuated by a certain sense of guilt, he decided to leave the theatre as soon as the curtain went up on the next act, which was to be the last. Instead of doing so, however, he lingered to the end of the play, secure in his conscienceless espionage. It had come to him that if he met them in front of the theatre as they came out he could invite them to join him at supper in one of the near-by restaurants. The idea pleased him. He coddled it until it became a sensation.

When James Brood and his wife reached the side-walk they found him there, directly in their path as they wedged their way to the curb to await the automobile. He was smiling frankly, wistfully. There was an honest gladness in his fine, boyish face and an eager light in his eyes. He no longer had the sense of guilt in his soul. It had been a passing qualm, and he felt regenerated for having experienced it, even so briefly. Somehow it had purged his soul of the one longing doubt as to the sincerity of his impulses.

“Hello!” he said, planting himself squarely in front of them.

There was a momentary tableau. He was vividly aware of the fact that Yvonne had shrunk back in alarm and that a swift look of fear leaped into her surprised eyes. She drew closer to Brood's side—or was it the jostling of the crowd that made it seem to be so? He realised then that she had not seen him in the theatre. Her surprise was genuine. It was not much short of consternation, a fact that he realised with a sudden sinking of the heart.

Then his eyes went quickly to his father's face. James Brood was regarding him with a cold, significant smile, as one who understands and despises.

“They told me you were here,” faltered Frederic, the words rushing hurriedly through his lips, “and I thought we might run in somewhere and have a bite to eat. I—I want to tell you about Lydia and myself and what———”

The carriage-man bawled a number in his ear and jerked open the door of a limousine that had pulled up to the curb.

Without a word James Brood handed his wife into the car and then turned to the chauffeur.

“Home,” he said, and, without so much as a glance at Frederic, stepped inside. The door was slammed and the car slid out into the maelstrom.

Yvonne had sunk back into a corner, huddled down as if suddenly deprived of all her strength. Frederic saw her face as the car moved away. She was staring at him with wide-open, reproachful eyes, as if to say: “Oh, what have you done? What a fool you are!”

For a second or two he stood as if petrified, then everything turned red before him, a wicked red that blinded him. He staggered, as if from a blow in the face.

“My God!” slipped from his stiff lips, and tears leaped to his eyes—tears of supreme mortification. Like a beaten dog he slunk away, feeling himself pierced by the pitying gaze of every mortal in the street.