The resonant strokes of great clocks boomed forth the third hour after midnight; the sounds faded away languidly upon the heavy air, and silence reigned once more over the sleeping city. Evarne wandering downstairs, leaned out of the landing-window counting the tones, listened until they had died into nothingness, then, with a shuddering sigh, continued her way to the sitting-room.

Hour after hour throughout this seemingly endless night had she wandered over her little house, pacing to and fro distractedly in every room in turn. Morris Kenyon had come again into her life, and to stop her marriage would, if necessary, ruthlessly betray her secret to Geoff. It was beyond any possibility of doubt. That brief interview with him had clearly shown his intention. What power had she to prevent it? He would tell all—and then—what then? Even in imagination the results were well-nigh insupportable. And this approaching blow would not—could not—fall on herself alone; and in this reflection there lay a sting potent as that of the torturing gadfly that drove Io of old wandering over land and water seeking peace in vain.

Why, why had she ever risked this calamity? She ought to have told Geoff the whole truth about herself directly she saw he was growing really to care for her. But now, as an additional offence, she had been guilty of such brazen lies; had deceived him both by words and by silences so continually and deliberately. Her whole conduct towards him must now appear shameful, utterly dishonourable. It was almost impossible to hope that his affection would endure in the face of such dire discoveries, it was quite out of the question to expect him afterwards implicitly to believe even her strongest assertions. Strive as she might to explain her motives, to excuse trickery that she could not deny, however earnestly she should plead, mourn, regret, she could never do away with these damning, irrefutable facts. What would Geoff think and say and do? Surely his revulsion of feeling would be terrible and complete?

And if, despite all, he could not cease to care for her—why, so much the worse for him! He who so desired to reverence where he loved could feel but contempt, or at least mere forgiving, generous pity. In place of trust and glad confidence—doubt, surmise, unrest. Better far for her "dreamer" if all memory of her could fade entirely from his thoughts. To love with the heart and despise with the intellect—it could be done. But it was cruel suffering; it bordered on the unendurable! She herself knew only too well the mental torture that such complex emotions imply. Was she to be the means of forcing Geoff to acquire this bitter knowledge?

During the passing of the weary hours her thoughts had travelled widely. Not only had she shuddered at the revelations of that day, and sickened with horror for the future, but memories of the hateful past had pressed upon her with resolute persistency.

And in that retrospect it seemed that bygone days had failed to show her the uttermost possibilities of mental anguish. Not throughout the long-protracted pain of striving against Lucinda Belmont's successful rivalry; not in that moment of humiliation and agony of spirit when Morris had bade her leave him for Tony; not the year of grinding poverty and overwork that followed—none of all this had brought the cruellest last drops of the cup of misery so near her shrinking lips as did the present hour. She knew now that she could taste of these final dregs by one means only—by seeing her own deeds used as the weapon wherewith to shatter the happiness of the man she loved far more dearly then life.

"Geoff, Geoff, forgive me!" she cried aloud, and buried her face in her hands.

How cruel it all seemed! Could it be mere chance that so often made a sport, a mockery, of just the highest hopes and prospects—of the sunshine of the present—of the sweetest amidst past memories? Hot rebellion awoke within her heart, so surely did it seem that some subtle malignity, some deliberate spitefulness, had been at work shaping her life from the very day of her birth, when she lost her mother, guiding and controlling events until they culminated in this coil of torment. Or perchance it had all been preordained by some Supreme Being as a test, a needful trial. Yet again, may be, she, and Geoffrey too, were but working out their own salvation, fated to endure in order to expiate evil wrought in some forgotten existence; that she ought to be resigned, and, rebelling no longer, to submit patiently to sorrow both for herself and for him.

Ah, mystery of suffering! Can blind mortal eyes pierce the veil? Can a heart torn with ardent earthly love find comfort in the shadowy dreams of philosophers or mystics?

Evarne flung herself upon the couch, pressing her face despairingly into the cushions. And in the blackness arose, clear and distinct, a mental vision of that little Temple of Sekhet far away in the land of Egypt. How minutely could she recall the terrifying aspect of the goddess who held dominion over Love, over its joy and its cruelty. Almost with the vividness of reality could she see those ominous features—that flat head with its receding brow, beneath which no wise benevolence, no tender charity could ever find place. And in the mental picture, the narrow gleaming eyes seemed reading the agony of her spirit with malicious deliberation, the long lips were parted over sharp teeth with a devilish smile of amusement and gratification.

She started erect and gazed around the familiar room, seeking to clear her mind of such spectres. But the train of thought was not to be got rid of so easily.

Surely those long-dead priests of Egypt had been verily inspired when they represented this divinity under the guise of a cat-headed creature? Ah, "Crusher of Hearts" supreme, with your sheer delight in torturing all that falls helplessly within your power—with your eyes that have the gift of seeing clearly how and where to strike when the vision of all others is dulled! But they should have given you cat's paws, Sekhet—cruel, tearing talons concealed in sheaths softer than velvet!

There was surely the "Mark of the Beast" upon this fate that had befallen her. After so many years of dull monotony, to be allowed once again to behold prospects of the truest happiness—to enjoy so brief a spell of love and joy—just a taste of life's sweetest possibilities. Then this crushing blow, this darkening of the heavens, this blight upon the earth, this upheaval of the depths!

She moved restlessly around the room for a few minutes, then wandered upstairs again. She longed for the temporary forgetfulness of sleep, but how vain to seek it with a mind in so wild a turmoil. The very atmosphere seemed stifling. Half lifting aside the dressing-table that stood before the window, she flung wide the lower sash, and bringing a chair, rested her folded arms upon the sill and gazed into the night.

Out of doors all was quiet and peaceful indeed. The moon still rode high, flinging clear-cut fantastic shadows upon road and pavement. No sound was to be heard, no human being to be seen.

Yet the mere sight of the street brought a fresh pang to her already overburdened heart. While Philia was away posing at the Polytechnic Art class that evening there had come a knock at the door which Evarne had disregarded entirely. A second rap was treated with like contempt; the outside world with its demands was non-existent to her that night. But the current of her thoughts had been disturbed, and at the third attempt she became sufficiently interested in this perseverance to stand concealed by the window-curtains to watch who went away.

After a time a figure had appeared and walked slowly down the street. It was Geoff himself. He had driven home with her at five o'clock, and here, but a few hours later, was apparently already anxious for fresh news. To see the road, brought this little incident vividly to her memory. Was she to lose such care and devotion? And to think that Geoff—with all his kindness and unfailing tenderness towards the weakest living thing, his trust and his true love for herself—was to be nothing more than one of Sekhet's innumerable victims!

She dragged down the blind sharply, to shut out the sight of the road, then made up her mind at least to lie down and strive to sleep. But early risers were already abroad before her eyelids even closed, and she seemed scarcely to have lost consciousness before Philia aroused her.

The old woman had not been as blind to the girl's troubled state as Evarne supposed. Far from sleeping complacently all night, she had lain awake long, listening to the gentle footsteps in the house, grieving over the sorrow that had so evidently descended upon the one who was dearest to her of all the world. Thus her voice was quite apologetic as she called out—

"I'm sorry to wake yer, my pet, but I've let yer sleep as long as ever is possible if you're goin' to be at that studio by nine. It's jist on eight o'clock already."

"I'll get up at once," Evarne answered, and she went so far towards carrying out her good intention as to immediately sit up in bed. But as the memory of the events of the previous day came upon her, she promptly sank down again with a renewal of despair.

But although lamentation and fear were permissible in the night hours, with the morning must come a renewal of courage and energy—so she told herself, at least; and with the determination of acting up to this resolution, sprang lightly out of bed, and, crossing the room, drew up the blind.

But either the energy of her uprising after such a night, or the sudden blaze of morning light, rendered her suddenly dizzy. She shut her eyes and leant for a moment on the dressing table. When she opened them again the first thing she saw was her own reflection in the mirror. She surveyed it with stern disapproval. What a sight she was, with pale cheeks and those blue circles under the eyes! She looked every whit as ugly as she felt—dazed and sleepy and silly. Suddenly she made up her mind to stay at home. There was no real need to call upon her resources until the evening brought the interview with Morris. She would avoid the unnecessary effort of concealing her distress and anxiety from Geoff.

She went out on to the landing, and, leaning over the banisters, called for Philia. The old woman opened the door of the kitchen, from whence issued the hissing sound of frying.

"Bring me up a cup of tea—nice and strong. I don't want anything to eat. I'm not going to the studio this morning."

Then returning to her room, she sat down and wrote to Geoff.

"Dearest of all,

"Will you mind very much if I don't come to-day? I have had such a restless night, it has made me look so ugly I don't want you to see me. There's vanity! Really, I do feel quite unwell—not actually ill, you know, but not up to posing. I feel sure I should only break more precious vases, so I had better not come, though it is hard not to see you for a whole day, my Geoff.

"Your lazy

"Evarne."

As she took the tea from Philia's hands she gave her the note.

"Send this by district messenger. Go at once, there's a dear."

"Won't yer tell me what's the matter, my pet? It's all troublin' me, it is, straight."

"There's nothing to worry about in a bad night, is there, now? When you come back don't wake me. I'm going to sleep again if I can."

But Evarne did not leave it to chance. When she had nearly finished her tea she produced a tiny blue bottle from the drawer of the washing-stand, carefully counted out five-and-twenty drops, shook her cup round several times, then swallowed tea and chlorodyne together to the last dreg. Lowering the blind she got back into bed and was soon fast asleep.

It was three o'clock before she descended to the sitting-room. On the table was a cluster of sweet-peas and roses, together with a note.

"Did Mr. Danvers send these?" she inquired, as she tore open the envelope.

"'E brought 'em 'imself. My gosh, dearie, 'e is properly careful of you. 'E knocked so soft I 'ardly 'eard 'im, and 'e looked that worried."

"So I've already started to grieve him," reflected Evarne grimly, as she proceeded to read his letter.

"My poor precious Darling,

"I can't tell you how terrible it is to me to think of you as weak and suffering ... my bright-eyed, rosy-lipped Evarne. And I feel that really it is all my fault in one way and another.... I'm sure it is not surprising that yesterday should have upset you.... It's a delicate, sensitive soul, I know, for all the glorious vitality of the flesh. Only get well quickly, my best and dearest, and I'll guard you better in future. Get strong quickly, for my sake, who love you so, and you shall have permission to smash every vase in the studio to your heart's content ... you darling!

"Geoff."

She put this little note in the bosom of her gown, as she went out to the kitchen in response to Philia's call to dinner.

After the little meal she got out her drawing materials, and made some pretence at working. But her pencil moved almost mechanically over the paper as her mind rehearsed all she could possibly find to say to Morris—the pleas, the arguments she could place before him to turn him from his present purpose. Slowly though time crept, she watched its steady progress with dismay, and as the afternoon waned there arose within her an ever-increasing fear, not so much of the interview that loomed ahead, as of its result. She tried to force herself to think only hopefully regarding its issue, but all the time in her innermost consciousness she seemed to know that failure was a foregone conclusion. How futile to strive to alter Morris's set determination—above all when, for once in his life, he would be able to flatter himself that he was standing firm in the cause of right and justice.