Long past midnight the telephone in the Desmond apartment rang sharply, insistently. Lydia, who had just fallen asleep, awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in her bed. A clammy perspiration broke out all over her body. There in the darkness she shivered with a dread so desolating that every vestige of strength forsook her and she could only stare helplessly into the black pall that surrounded her.

Never before in all her life had she been aroused from sleep by the jangling of a telephone-bell. The sound struck terror to her heart. She knew that something terrible had happened. She knew there had been a catastrophe.

She sat there chattering until she heard her mother's door open and then the click of the receiver as it was lifted from the hook. Then she put her fingers to her ears and closed her eyes. The very worst had happened; she was sure of it. The blow had fallen. The one thought that seared her brain was that she had failed him, failed him miserably in the crisis. Oh, if she could only reclaim that lost hour of indecision and cowardice!

The light in the hallway suddenly smote her in the face, and she realised for the first time that her eyes were tightly closed, as if to shut out some abhorrent sight.

“Lydia!” Her mother was standing in the open door. “Oh, you are awake?” Mrs Desmond stared in amazement at the girl's figure.

“What is it, mother? Tell me what has happened? Is he————”

“He wants to speak to you. He is on the wire. His voice sounds queer——”

The girl sprang out of bed and hurried to the telephone.

“Don't go away, mother—stay here,” she cried as she sped past the white-clad figure in the doorway. Mrs Desmond flattened herself against the wall and remained there as motionless as a statue, her sombre gaze fixed on her daughter's face.

“Yes, Frederic, it is I, Lydia. What is it, dear?” Her voice was high and thin.

His words came jerking over the wire, sharp and querulous. She closed her eyes in anticipation of the blow, her body rigid.

“I'm sorry to disturb you,” he was saying, “but I just had to call you up.” The words were disjointed, as if he forced them from his lips in a supreme effort at coherency.

“Yes, yes—it's all right. I don't mind. You did right. What is it?”

“I want you to release me from my promise.”

“Release you? Oh, Freddy!” It was a wail that issued from her lips. Her body sagged limply, she steadied herself by leaning against the wall for support.

“You've got to, Lydia. There's no other way. Something has happened to-night, dear. You've got to———”

“Has he—has he———” Her throat closed up as if gripped by a strong hand.

“I'm sorry to drag you out of bed to tell you———”

“Freddy, Freddy!”

“To tell you that I must withdraw my promise, even if you refuse to release me. Oh, I'm not excited, I'm not crazy, I'm not drunk! I never was so steady in my life. To-night has made a man of me. I know just where I stand at last. Now go back to bed, dearest, and don't worry about anything. I couldn't go ahead until I'd asked you to release me from the promise I made.”

“You mean—the promise—but, Freddy, I can't release you. I love you. I will be your wife, no matter what has happened, no matter———”

“Oh, Lord, Lyddy—it isn't that! It's the other—the promise to say nothing to my father———”

“Oh!” she sighed weakly, a vast wave of relief almost suffocating her.

“He has made it impossible for me to go on without———”

“Where are you, Frederic?” she cried in sudden alarm.

“Oh, I'm all right. I shan't go home, you may be sure of that. To-morrow will be time enough.”

“Where are you? I must know. How can I reach you by telephone—”

“Don't be frightened, dear. It's got to be, that's all. It might as well be ended now as later on. The last straw was laid on to-night. Now don't ask questions. I'll see you in the morning. Good night, sweetheart. I've—I've told you that I can't stick to my promise. You'll understand. I couldn't rest until I'd told you and heard your dear voice. Forgive me for calling you up. Tell your mother I'm sorry. Good night!”

“Freddy, listen to me! You must wait until I——— Oh!” He had hung up the receiver. She heard the whir of the open wire.

There was little comfort for her in the hope held out by her mother as they sat far into the night and discussed the possibilities of the day so near at hand. She could see nothing but disaster, and she could think of nothing but her own lamentable weakness in shrinking from the encounter that might have made the present situation impossible. Between them mother and daughter constructed at random a dozen theories as to the nature of the fresh complication that had entered into the already serious situation, and always it was Lydia who advanced the most sickening of conjectures.

Nor was it an easy matter for Mrs Desmond to combat these fears. In her heart she felt that an irreparable break had occurred and that the final clash was imminent. She tried to make light of the situation, however, prophesying a calmer attitude for Frederic after he had slept over his grievance, which, after all, she argued was doubtless exaggerated.

She promised to go with Lydia to see James Brood in the morning, and to plead with him to be merciful to the boy she was to marry, no matter what transpired. The girl at first insisted on going over to see him that night, notwithstanding the hour, and was dissuaded only after the most earnest opposition.

It was four o'clock before they went back to bed, and long after five before either closed her eyes.

Mrs Desmond, utterly exhausted, was the first to awake. She glanced at the little clock on her dressing-table and gave a great start of consternation. It was long past nine o'clock. She arose at once and hurried to her daughter's door, half expecting to find the room empty and the girl missing from the apartment.

But Lydia was lying there sound asleep. Mrs Desmond's lips parted to give voice to a gentle call, but it was never uttered. A feeling of infinite pity for the tired, harassed girl came over her. For a long time she stood there watching the gentle rise and fall of the sleeper's breast. Then she closed the door softly and stole back to her own room, inspired by a sudden resolve.

While she was dressing the little maid-servant brought in her coffee and toast and received instructions not to awaken Miss Lydia but to let her have her sleep out. A few minutes later she left the apartment and walked briskly around the corner to Brood's home.

She had resolved to take the matter out of her daughter's hands. As she stood at the bedroom door watching Lydia's sweet, troubled face, there arose within her the mother instinct to fight for her young. It was not unlikely that James Brood could be moved by Lydia's pleading, in spite of his declaration that Frederic should never marry her, but the mother recognised the falseness of a position gained by such means.

Over Lydia's head would hang the perpetual reminder that he had submitted out of consideration for her, and not through fairness or justice to Frederic; all the rest of her life she would be made to feel that he tolerated Frederic for her sake. The girl would never know a moment in which she could be free from that ugly sense of obligation. God willing, Frederic would be her daughter's husband. Lydia might spare him the blow that James Brood could deal, but all of her life would be spent in contemplation of that one bitter hour in which she went on her knees to beg for mercy.

The mother saw all this with a foresightedness that stripped the situation of every vestige of romance. Lydia might rejoice at the outset, but there would surely come a time of heartache for her. It would come with the full realisation that James Brood's pity was hard to bear.

Fearing that she might be too late, she walked so rapidly that she was quite out of breath when she entered the house. Mr Riggs and Mr Dawes were putting on their coats in the hall preparatory to their short morning constitutional. They greeted her profusely, and with one accord proceeded to divest themselves of the coats, announcing in one voice their intention to remain for a good, old-fashioned chat.

“It's dear of you,” she said hurriedly, “but I must see Mr Brood at once. Why not come over to my apartment this afternoon for a cup of tea and——”

Mrs Brood's voice interrupted her.

“What do you want, Mrs Desmond?” came from the landing above.

The visitor looked up with a start, not so much of surprise as uneasiness. There was something sharp, unfriendly, in the low, level tones.

Yvonne, fully dressed—a most unusual circumstance at that hour of the day—was leaning over the banister-rail.

“I came to see Mr Brood on a very important—”

“He is occupied. Won't I do as well?”

“It is really quite serious, Mrs Brood. I am afraid it would be of no avail to—to take it up with you.”

“Have you been sent here by someone else?” demanded Mrs Brood.

“I have not seen Frederic,” fell from the other's lips before she thought.

“I dare say you haven't,” said the other with ominous clearness. “He has been here since seven this morning, waiting for a chance to speak to his father in private.”

“Heaven help me! I—I am too———”

“Unless he spent the night in your apartment, I fancy you haven't seen him,” went on Yvonne languidly.

She was descending the stairs slowly, almost lazily as she uttered the remark.

“They are together now?” gasped Mrs Desmond.

“Will you come into the library? Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you may enjoy your long walk.”

Mrs Desmond followed her into the library. Yvonne closed the door almost in the face of Mr Riggs, who had opened his mouth to accept the invitation to tea, but who said he'd “be blasted” instead, so narrow was his escape from having his nose banged. He emphasised the declaration by shaking his fist at the door.

The two women faced each other. For the first time since she had known Yvonne Brood, Mrs Desmond observed a high touch of colour in her cheeks. Her beautiful eyes were alive with an excitement she could not conceal. Neither spoke for a moment.

“You are accountable for this, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia Desmond's mother sternly, accusingly. She expected a storm of indignant protest. Instead, Yvonne smiled slightly.

“It will not hurt my husband to discover that Frederic is a man and not a milksop,” she said, but despite her coolness there was a perceptible note of anxiety in her voice.

“You know, then, that they are—that they will quarrel?”

“I fancy it was in Frederic's mind to do so when he came here this morning. He was still in his evening clothes, Mrs Desmond.”

“Where are they now?”

“I think he has them on,” said Yvonne lightly.

Mrs Desmond regarded her for a moment in perplexity. Then her eyes flashed dangerously.

“I do not think you misunderstood me, Mrs Brood. Where are Frederic and his father?”

“I am not accustomed to that tone of voice, Mrs Desmond.”

“I am no longer your housekeeper,” said the other succinctly. “You do not realise what this quarrel may mean. I insist on going up to them before it has gone too far.”

“My husband can take care of himself, thank you.”

“I am not thinking of your husband, but of that poor boy who is———”

“And if I am to judge by Frederic's manner this morning, he is also able to take care of himself,” said Yvonne coolly. Her voice shook a little.

Mrs Desmond shot a quick glance of comprehension at the speaker.

“You are worried, Mrs Brood. Your manner betrays you. I command you to tell me how long they have been upstairs together. How long———”

“Will you be so good, Mrs Desmond, as to leave this house instantly?” cried Yvonne angrily.

“No,” said the other quietly. “I suppose I am too late to prevent trouble between those two men, but I shall at least remain here to assure Frederic of my sympathy, to help him if I can, to offer him the shelter of my home.”

A spasm of alarm crossed Yvonne's face.

“Do you really believe it will come to that?” she demanded nervously.

“If what I fear should come to pass, he will not stay in this house another hour. He will go forth from it cursing James Brood with all the hatred that his soul can possess. And now, Mrs Brood, shall I tell you what I think of you?”

“No. It isn't at all necessary. Besides, I've changed my mind. I'd like you to remain. I do not want to mystify you any farther, Mrs Desmond, but I now confess to you that I am losing my courage. Don't ask me to tell you why, but———”

“I suppose it is the custom with those who play with fire. They shrink when it burns them.”

Mrs Brood looked at her steadily. The rebellious, sullen expression died out of her eyes. She sighed deeply, almost despairingly.

“I am sorry you think ill of me, but yet I cannot blame you for considering me to be a—a——— I'll not say it. Mrs Desmond, I—I wish I had never come to this house.”

“Permit me to echo your words.”

“You will never be able to understand me. And, after all, why should I care? You are nothing to me. You are merely a good woman who has no real object in life. You———”

“No real object in life?”

“Precisely. Sit down. We will wait here together, if you please. I—I am worried. I think I rather like to feel that you are here with me. You see, the crisis has come.”

“You know, of course, that he turned one wife out of this house, Mrs Brood,” said Mrs Desmond deliberately.

Something like terror leaped into the other's eyes. The watcher experienced an incomprehensible feeling of pity for her—she who had been despising her so fiercely the instant before.

“He—he will not turn me out,” murmured Yvonne, and suddenly began pacing the floor, her hands clenched. Stopping abruptly in front of the other woman, she exclaimed: “He made a great mistake in driving that other woman out. He is not likely to repeat it, Mrs Desmond.”

“Yes—I think he did make a mistake,” said Mrs Desmond calmly. “But he does not think so. He is a man of iron. He is unbending.”

“He is a wonderful man—a great, splendid man,” cried Yvonne fiercely. “It is I—Yvonne Lestrange—who proclaim it to the world. I cannot bear to see him suffer. I———”

“Then, why do you———”

“Ah, you would say it, eh? Well, there is no answer. Poof! Perhaps it will not be so bad as we think. Come! I am no longer uneasy. See! I am very calm. Am I not an example for you? Sit down. We will wait together.”

They sat far apart, each filled with dark misgivings, though radically opposed in their manner of treating the situation. Mrs Desmond was cold with apprehension. She sat immovable, tense. Yvonne sank back easily in a deep, comfortable chair and coolly lighted a cigarette. It would have been remarked by a keen observer that her failure to offer one to her visitor was evidence of an unwonted abstraction. As a matter of fact, inwardly she was trembling like a leaf.

“I suppose there is nothing to do,” said Mrs Desmond in despair, after a long silence. “Poor Lydia will never forgive herself.”

Yvonne blew rings of smoke toward the ceiling.

“I dare say you think I am an evil person, Mrs Desmond.”

“Curiously, Mrs Brood, I have never thought of you in that light. Your transgressions are the greater for that reason.”

“Transgressions? An amiable word, believe me.”

“I did not come here, however, to discuss your actions.”

Yvonne leaned forward suddenly.

“You do not ask what transpired last night to bring about this crisis. Why do you hesitate?”

Mrs Desmond shook her head slowly. “I do not want to know.”

“Well, it was not what you have been thinking it was,” said Yvonne levelly.

“I am relieved to hear it,” said the other rather grimly.

Mrs Brood flushed to the roots of her hair.

“I do not want to appear unfair to my husband, but I declare to you, Mrs Desmond, that Frederic is fully justified in the attitude he has taken this morning. His father humiliated him last night in a manner that made forbearance impossible. That much I must say for Frederic. And permit me to add, from my soul, that he is vastly more sinned against than sinning.”

“I can readily believe that, Mrs Brood.”

“This morning Frederic came into the breakfast-room while we were having our coffee. You look surprised. Yes, I was having breakfast with my husband. I knew that Frederic would come. That was my reason. When I heard him in the hall I sent the servants out of the dining-room. He had spent the night with a friend. His first words on entering the room were these—I shall never forget them: 'Last night I thought I loved you, father, but I have come home just to tell you that I hate you. I can't stay in this house another day. I'm going to get out. But I just wanted you to know that I thought I loved you last night, as a son should love his father. I just wanted you to know it.'

“He did not even look at me, Mrs Desmond. I don't believe he knew I was there. I shall never forget the look in James Brood's face. It was as if he saw a ghost or some horrible thing that fascinated him. He did not utter a word, but stared at Frederic in that terrible, awe-struck way.

“'I'm going to get out,' said Frederic, his voice rising. 'You've treated me like a dog all of my life, and I'm through. I shan't even say good-bye to you. You don't deserve any more consideration from me than I've received from you. I hope I'll never see you again. If I ever have a son I'll not treat him as you've treated your son. You don't deserve the honour of being called father; you don't deserve to have a son. I wish to God I had never been obliged to call you father! I don't know what you did to my mother, but if you treated her as———'

“Just then my husband found his voice. He sprang to his feet, and I've never seen such a look of rage. I thought he was going to strike Frederic, and I think I screamed—just a little scream, of course. I was so terrified. But he only said—and it was horrible the way he said it—'You fool—you bastard!' And Frederic laughed in his face and cried out, unafraid: 'I'm glad you call me a bastard! I'd rather be one than be your son. It would at least give me something to be proud of—a real father!'”

“Good Heaven!” fell from Mrs Desmond's white lips.

Yvonne seemed to have paused to catch her breath. Her breast heaved convulsively, the grip of her hands tightened on the arms of the chair.

Suddenly she resumed her recital, but her voice was hoarse and tremulous.

“I was terribly frightened. I thought of calling out to Jones, but I—I had no voice! Ah, you have never seen two angry men waiting to spring at each other's throats, Mrs Desmond. My husband suddenly regained control of himself. He was very calm. 'Come with me,' he said to Frederic. 'This is not the place to wash our filthy family linen. You say you want something to be proud of. Well, you shall have your wish. Come to my study.' And they went away together, neither speaking a word to me—they did not even glance in my direction. They went up the stairs. I heard the door close behind them—away up there. That was half an hour ago. I have been waiting, too—waiting as you are waiting now—to comfort Frederic when he comes out of that room a wreck.”

Mrs Desmond started up, an incredulous look in her eyes.

“You are taking his side? You are against your husband? Oh, now I know the kind of woman you are. I know———”

“Peace! You do not know the kind of woman I am. You will never know. Yes, I shall take sides with Frederic.”

“You do not love your husband!”

A strange, unfathomable smile came into Yvonne's face and stayed there. Mrs Desmond experienced the same odd feeling she had had years ago on first seeing the Sphinx. She was suddenly confronted by an unsolvable mystery.

“He shall not drive me out of his house, Mrs Desmond,” was her answer to the challenge.

A door slammed in the upper regions of the house. Both women started to their feet.

“It is over,” breathed Yvonne with a tremulous sigh.

“We shall see how well they were able to take care of themselves, Mrs Brood,” said Mrs Desmond in a low voice.

“We shall see—yes,” said the other mechanically. Suddenly she turned on the tall, accusing figure beside her. “Go away! Go now! I command you to go. This is our affair, Mrs Desmond. You are not needed here. You were too late, as you say. I beg of you, go!” She strode swiftly toward the door. As she was about to place her hand on the knob it was opened from the other side, and Ranjab stood before them.

“Sahib begs to be excused, Mrs Desmond. He is just going out.”

“Going out?” cried Yvonne, who had shrunk back into the room.

“Yes, sahibah. You will please excuse, Mrs Desmond. He regret very much.”

Mrs Desmond passed slowly through the door, which he held open for her. As she passed by the Hindu she looked full into his dark, expressive eyes, and there was a question in hers. He did not speak, but she read the answer as if it were on a printed page. Her shoulders drooped.

She went back to Lydia.