To the fears already possessing Lady Barbara a new one had now been added, freezing her blood and leaving her prostrate and helpless, like a plant stricken by an icy blast.

There had been no sleep for her after Martha's revelations regarding the presence of Felix in town, and turn as she would on her pillow, she could not escape the dread of one hideous possibility—her meeting him face to face, uncovering to his penetrating gaze her shame.

That he had had any other purpose in pursuing her across the sea than to humiliate and punish her, she did not believe. No man, certainly no man as proud as her husband, would forgive a woman who had trailed his ancestral name in the mud, and made his family life a byword in clubs and drawing-rooms. That Martha believed he could still love her was natural. Such good souls, women of the people, who had always led restrained and wholesome lives, would believe nothing else, but not a woman of her own class. She had only to recall a dozen instances where the bonds of marriage had been broken, with all the attendant scandal and misery, to be convinced of what would befall her were she and Felix to meet.

Her one hope was that her husband, baffled in his search, had left the city, and that neither Martha nor Stephen would ever see him again. Their inability to find him of late might mean that he had given up the search, having found no trace of her during all the months in which he had been trying to find her. Or it might mean that he, too, had succumbed to the same poverty which she had endured and, being no longer able to maintain himself in the great city, had sought work elsewhere.

As the thought of this last possibility suddenly took possession of her, her heart gave a great bound of relief, and in the quiet that ensued, a certain tenderness for the man whom she had wronged began to well up within her. She recalled their early life and his unfailing generosity. Never in all the years she had known him had he refused her the slightest thing which could, in any way, add to her happiness. Indeed, he had often denied himself many of the luxuries to which a man of his tastes and training was entitled, in order to add to her store. Nor had he ever restrained her in her whims or her extravagance, and never, in any way, had he curtailed her freedom. She had been free to come and free to go, and with whom she pleased. Her intimacy with Dalton had been proof of all this, as well as her friendships with various men to whose companionship many another husband might have objected. “All right, Barbara,” was his invariable reply; “you will get over your youth one of these days, and then you and I will settle down.”

Even when the financial crash had come, he had begged her to go with him to Australia, where he had important family connections, and where he could build up his fortunes anew. It was by no means certain, he had told her, that he was entirely ruined. His father's estate, when all the debts were paid, might still leave a surplus. There was some land just outside of London, too, on the line of suburban improvement, and this, with the title which had come to him with his father's death, would doubtless, after a few years, enable them to return to England and resume their former position. She remembered very well the night he had pleaded with her, and she remembered, too, with a gripping at her heart, her own contemptuous answer, and her departure the next morning for her father's roof. And then the lie she had told!—that Felix had bluntly announced to her his plan for raising sheep in Australia, ordering her to get ready to go with him at once.

She recalled, too, this time with burning cheeks, a certain unsigned letter, in an unknown hand, which had reached her after her flight with Dalton, describing her husband as stunned and dazed by the blow, the writer denouncing her for her desertion, and warning her of the retribution in store for her if she remained with a man like the one on whom she had staked her future happiness. She had laughed at its contents and tossed it across the table to Dalton, who had read it with a smile, caught it between a pair of tongs and, lighting a match, held it over the flame until it was consumed.

Then—as, tortured by these recollections, she lay staring at the dark—Martha's prediction, based on Stephen's, belief, that Felix would kill Dalton at sight, rose up in her mind, and with it came another great fear—one that, for a moment, stopped her heart from beating and left her numb. In the quick succession of blows that Martha had dealt, she had not fully grasped this part of the story. Now she did. That her husband was capable of it she fully believed. Quiet, reticent men like Felix—men who had served their country both in India and Egypt—men who never boasted, who never discussed their intentions or plans until they were carried out, were the men to take the law into their own hands when their honor was involved, no matter who was hurt. Such a catastrophe would not only bring to light her own misery, but the unavoidable publicity would tarnish still further the good name of her people at home. Even were only an attempt on Dalton's life made, and an official investigation held—as she was convinced would be the case—the scandal would be almost as bad. Rather than have this occur she would make any sacrifice, even that of humiliating herself on her knees before Felix—begging his forgiveness, not for the sake of the man she now feared and detested, but for the sake of her father at home, and to shield her own identity. She feared, too, for Felix. He, of all men, should be saved from committing such an act.

With this a sudden resolve born of her fears and shattered nerves took possession of her. She would not only see her husband whenever he came, but she would send word in the morning to Stephen to redouble his search, leaving no stone unturned until he was found.

Nothing of all this did she say to Martha, who helped her dress, watching the dark circles beneath the eyes. Breakfast over, she silently took her seat by the window, drew from the big paper box at her feet her several pieces of lace, including the mantilla, and began to work.

As she held up to the light the ragged tear in the Spanish lace, and noted the width and length of the gash in its delicate texture, her heart sank. She saw at a glance that she could not finish it before closing time, even if she devoted the whole day to its repair. Better complete, thought she, the other and smaller pieces—one a fichu of Brussels lace, and the others some embroidered handkerchiefs on which she was to place monograms. These she would finish and take to Mangan. When he saw how tired she was, he would accept her excuses and give her another day for the large and more important piece. She did not have to leave the house until four o'clock, and as Martha was to be out most of the day, she could work on without distraction of any kind.

When, at noon, Martha left her, with a caressing pat of the hand, promising to be back in time for supper, the anxious, weary woman picked up her needle again, her fingers darting in and out like shuttles, her shoulders aching with the strain, her mind still intent on the problems which had tortured her all night, and only rousing herself when the clock in a neighboring tower struck four. Then she gathered up her work, wrapped the whole in the same sheet of tissue-paper in which the several pieces had been packed, and, adjusting her hat and cloak, started for Rosenthal's.

Mangan, who was in charge of the department, had been waiting for her in a small room off the repair shop, and as he caught sight of her frail figure making her way toward him, rose to greet her. “Well, I'm glad you've come,” he began, as she reached his desk. “Brought that Spanish piece, didn't you? Ought to have had it last night.”

She tried to smile, but his face was too forbidding. “No, I am sorry to say that—”

“You didn't! What have you done with it?”

“I could not finish it. I have brought everything else. I will have it for you in the morning.”

Mangan looked at her curiously, a smirk of suspicion crossing his narrow fox face. “Oh! You'll bring it to-morrow, will you?” he sneered. “Well, do you know that to-morrow's New Year's Eve and that this mantilla's got to be delivered to-night? They have been telephoning all day for it. To-morrow, eh? Well, don't that make you tired! It does me.”

An indignant protest quivered through her, but she dared not show resentment. Only within the last few months had she been subjected to these insults, and only her helplessness had compelled her to bear them.

“I am very sorry,” she answered simply, and with a certain dignity. “I have not been very well. I have done all I could. The damage was greater than I expected. Some of the threads must be entirely restored.”

“What time to-morrow?” Every kind of excuse known to the shop-worker had been poured into his ears. Very few of them contained a particle of truth.

“Before noon, if I can; certainly by four o'clock.”

“Four o'clock?” he roared. He had already made up his mind that she was lying, but there was no use in his telling her so, nor would any time be gained by taking the work from her and handing it over to another employee.

“Four means eight, I guess. What's the matter with ten o'clock? I got to have that sure, and no monkeying. Can't you brace up and jam it through?”

“I will try.” Her cheeks were burning under the sting of his coarse lashes.

“Try! You bet you'll try! Better get home right away. Give me that bundle—I'll have it checked up, so you won't lose no time.”

She bit her lip, her whole nature in revolt, but she made no reply. Too much was at stake for her to show anger at such coarseness. She had no rights that he was bound to respect. She was only one of his work-girls, and her short experience had shown her that but few of her associates received better treatment from him.

“Thank you,” was all she said as, with downcast eyes, she picked her way through the crowded workroom, down the long, steep staircase reserved for employees and so on to the street. There she caught a Third Avenue car and sank into a seat near the door, encroaching upon her small reserve of pennies to reach home the sooner. She saw but too clearly that not only did her present position depend on her returning the mantilla at the earliest possible moment, but that, exhausted as she was, she must utilize the few remaining minutes of daylight as well as the earlier hours of the morning to keep her promise. To work long at night she knew was impossible. She had not the eyes to follow the intricacies of the meshes with no other light than that afforded by Martha's kerosene lamp. She had tried it before, and had been forced to stop.

When she reached the cross street leading to Martha's door, she hurried from the car, caught her skirts in her hand, a habit of hers when nervously hurried, and, summoning up all her strength, sped on, mounting the narrow, rickety steps with but a pause for breath on the last landing. Once there, she took her latch-key from her pocket and unlocked the door, leaving it on the jar, as she knew Martha might come in at any moment.

As she entered the humble apartment, its restful seclusion, after her experience with Mangan, sent a thrill of thankfulness through her. One after another the several objects passed in review—the kettle singing on the stove, its ample bed of coals warming the room; her own tiny chamber, leading out of the one large room, with its small iron bedstead and white cotton quilt; the table with its lamp; the pine shelves with the few pieces of china, and even the big paper box in which her work was delivered and later returned to the shop, either by wagon or special messenger, and which Martha, before she had gone out, had placed on a chair near the door to keep it out of the dust. All told her of peace and warmth and comfort.

She lighted the lamp, picked up the box containing the mantilla, and half raised the lid, intending to place the contents on her sewing-table, but, catching sight of the kettle again, she let the box lid drop from her hands. She was chilled from the ride in the car, the water was boiling, and it would take but a minute to make herself a cup of tea. This would give her renewed strength for her task. Hardly had she drained her cup when she became conscious of a step on the stairs—a steady, firm step. Not Martha's nor that of the boy. Nor that of the expressman who often sought Martha's apartment.

As it approached the landing, a sickening faintness assailed her.

She had heard that step before.

It was Felix!

Her hour of trial had come!

He would find the door ajar, stride into the room with that quiet, self-contained manner of his; and she must face him and stand ashamed!

For a brief instant she wavered, her resolution of the morning, to throw herself at his feet, put to flight by a sense of some impending terror. Should she spring forward and shut the door before he reached it, refusing to admit him until Martha came, or should she creep noiselessly into her room and lock herself in, remaining silent until he should leave the premises, believing no one at home? While she stood, half paralyzed with fear, the door moved gently, almost stealthily, swinging back half its width, and a man in cape-coat, and slouch hat drawn dose over his eyes, stepped into the room.

Lady Barbara gave a piercing shriek, sprang from her seat, and staggered back, grasping a chair to keep her from falling. “How dare you, Guy Dalton, to—”

The intruder loosened the top button of his cape, watching, meanwhile, the terrified woman, and, with a sneer, said: “Oh, stop that, will you? I've had enough of it. You thought you could get away, did you? Well, you can't, and the sooner you find that out the better for you.” He glanced coolly around the room. “So this is where you are, is it?—a rotten hole, anyhow. You might better have stayed where you were. Does Rosenthal pay you enough to keep this up, or is somebody else footing the bills? Now, you get your things on and be quick about it.”

She had been edging toward her bedroom door all this time, her eyes glaring into his with the fierceness of a cornered animal, muttering as she stepped—one word at a time:

“You—have—no—right—to—come—in—here.”

“I haven't, haven't I? I'd like to know who has a better right?” he returned angrily.

“No, you have not.” She was moving an inch at a time, keeping a chair between herself and Dalton, her eyes watching his every expression, her right hand stretched along the wall.

“Still at it, are you? Well, get through, and hurry up. I'll go where I please, and you'll come when I want you. Everybody is inquiring for you down at the house, and I promised them you would be back to-night, and you will. You were a fool to leave. It's a lot better than this. From what I heard last night, from one of Rosenthal's girls, I thought you had moved into something palatial.”

She had reached the bedroom door now, and her hand was on the knob.

“Yes—that's right,” he said, mistaking her purpose, “get into your wraps, and—”

The door closed with a sudden bang, and the inside bolt was pushed tight.

Dalton stood with his hands in his pockets. “Oh, that's the game, is it?” he called, in a loud voice. He saw he had been outwitted, and an oath escaped him. He saw, too, that the door was a heavy one, and the effort to force it might bring in the neighbors. “Well, there's no hurry. I can wait,” he added savagely, “but if you know what's good for you, you'll come out now.”

She had sunk down on her bed, hardly daring to breathe. Her only hope now lay in Martha, and she might not come back for an hour.

Dalton sauntered away from the door and began an inspection of the room. The box on the chair came first. He lifted the lid and drew out the mantilla. “Rather good, this—wonder how she got hold of it—Oh, yes, I see, she must be repairing it. There are her work-basket and the spools of black silk.”

He turned to the box again and read the name of “Rosenthal” stencilled on the bottom. “So that is what she is doing—they did not tell me what she worked at.” He spread out the mantilla again and looked it over carefully. Then a smile of cunning crossed his face. “Just what I want,” he said, folding it up and tucking it inside his capacious cape.

He now made a tour of the room, his tread like that of a cat, lifted the plates on the dresser as if in search of something behind them, rummaged through the work-basket, opening and turning the leaves of a book lying on the table. So occupied was he that he did not hear Martha's noiseless step nor know that she had entered the room.

For a moment she stood watching his every movement. The man she saw was well-knit and rather handsome, not much over thirty, with clean-shaven face, drooping eyelids, and a hard-set lower jaw. She had a suspicion that it might be Dalton, but was not sure, never having seen him but once, when he was much younger.

“Who do you want to see?” she asked at last, in a firm voice.

Dalton wheeled sharply, and took her in with one comprehensive glance. He had always prided himself on never having been outwitted or taken unawares, and that Lady Barbara could lock herself in her room, and that this woman could creep up behind him unobserved, rather nettled him.

“I don't know that it is any of your business, my good woman,” he answered, his insolence increasing as he noticed how mild and inoffensive she appeared to be; “but if it makes any difference to you, I will tell you that I am waiting for my wife.”

“Where is she?” Martha's voice was clear and incisive, with a ring of determination through it that, for the moment, disconcerted him.

Dalton pointed to the bedroom door.

Martha stepped across the room and tried the knob. “Open the door, Lady Barbara. It's Martha. Who is this man?”

The bolt shot back and Barbara's frightened face peered out. “Oh, thank God you have come!” she moaned, her teeth chattering. “It is Mr. Dalton. I ordered him from the room, and he would not go, and—”

“Oh, it's Mr. Guy Dalton, is it?” Martha cried, facing him. “The man who's been a curse to you ever since you met him. I know every crook and turn of you—you ought to be ashamed of yourself to treat a woman as you have treated Lady Barbara O'Day. Now, sir, this is my room and you can't stay in it a minute longer. There's the door!”

Dalton laughed a dry, crackling laugh. “You are a regular virago, are you not, my dear woman?” he said. “Quite refreshing to hear your defense of a woman on whom I have spent every shilling I had. Now, do not get excited—cool down a bit, and we will talk it over—and while we are at it, please make me a cup of tea. It is about my hour. When my wife comes to her senses, as she will in a minute, she will get over her tantrums and think better of it.”

Martha strode straight toward him until her capacious body was within a few inches of his shirt-front, her hands tightly clinched. “Don't make any mistake, Mr. Dalton. Your airs won't go here. My brother Stephen looks after me and after Lady O'Day, and he and another man you wouldn't care to meet are looking after you.”

She called to her mistress: “Lock and bolt that door on you, and don't open it until I tell you.”

Again she confronted Dalton, her contempt for him increasing as she caught the wave of anxiety that swept his face at her reference to the men who would help her. “Now, you can have just one minute to leave this room, Mr. Dalton,” she cried, throwing back the door. “If you're over that time, the policeman on the block will help you down-stairs.”

Dalton hesitated. The allusion to Stephen, whoever he might be, and to the other man, disturbed him. That the woman knew more of his history than she was willing at that time to tell was evident. That she was entirely in earnest, and meant what she said, and that it would be more than dangerous for him to defy her, should she appeal to the police for help, were equally evident.

“Of course, my dear woman,” he said, with assumed humility, his eyes glistening with anger, “if you do not want me to stay, I suppose I shall have to go. I did not come to make any fuss; I only came to take my wife home where I can take care of her. She seems to think she can get along without me. All right—I am willing she should try it for a while. She has my address, which is more than I had when she left me without a word of any kind.”

He slid his hand under his cape to assure himself that the mantilla was safe and out of sight, picked up his hat, and stepped jauntily out, saying as he went down the staircase: “Next time, she will come to me. Do you hear? Tell her so, will you?”