W hen she realized this fact, Enid rose from her seat with a murmur of dismay. In her sharply feminine sense of loss, she took one involuntary step towards the door; but almost as the step was taken, her anger, her shattered faith assailed her anew, and, with a fresh burst of tears she turned and flung herself back upon the couch.

For a long time she lay with her face among the pillows; then, at last, as her angry sobs died out and the violence of her grief subsided, she sat up, wiped her eyes, and glanced at her dripping handkerchief.

At sight of the handkerchief—a mere wisp of wet cambric—her sense of injury stung her afresh, and once more her lips began to quiver; but fate had decided against further tears. Before her grief had gathered force, the bell of the hall-door sounded once more long and loudly; and hard upon the sound the door of the room opened.

With a start of confusion she sprang to her feet, and turned to confront Norris, standing at a discreet distance, with an apologetic manner and downcast eyes.

"Mr. Bale-Corphew, ma'am," she murmured, as Enid looked at her. "I told him you were not at home; but he said he would wait till whenever he could see you, it didn't matter how long."

With a little cry of dismay and annoyance, Enid put her hands to her disordered hair.

"Oh, how stupid of you!" she cried, tremulously. "You know I can't see him. You know I won't see him. Tell him I'm out—ill—anything you can think of—" But her voice suddenly faltered, and her words ended in a gasp, as she glanced from the servant to the door, which had abruptly reopened, displaying the face and figure of Bale-Corphew himself.

Without hesitation he had entered the room; and without hesitation he walked straight towards her.

"Forgive me!" he exclaimed. "I know this must seem unpardonable; but the occasion is without precedent. May I speak with you alone?"

In the moment of his entry, and during his hurried greeting, Enid had mastered her agitation. She looked at him now with an attempt at calmness.

"Certainly, if you have anything to say."

In the excitement under which he was obviously laboring, he did not observe the coldness of the granted permission. He waited with ill-concealed impatience until Norris had withdrawn, then he turned to her afresh.

"Mrs. Witcherley!" he cried, "you see before you an outraged man!"

He made the announcement fiercely and theatrically; but, to any ear, it would have been evident that, below the instinctive desire for dramatic effect, his voice trembled with genuine agitation—his speech was charged with violent feeling. To Enid, watching him with surprise and curiosity, it was patent at a glance that some circumstance, strange in its occurrence or vital in its issue, had shaken him to the base of his emotional nature. And as she looked at him her own coldness, her own humiliation, suddenly forsook her.

"What is it?" she cried, involuntarily. "What is it? Something has happened?"

For one moment his answer was delayed—held back by the torrent of words that rushed to his lips; then, at last, as his tongue freed itself, he threw out his hands in a fierce gesture.

"Outrage! Outrage and sacrilege!" he cried. "We have been duped—deceived—tricked. We, the Chosen—the Elect!"

"Duped? Deceived?" She echoed the words, faintly. "What do you mean? What has happened?"

"Everything! Everything!" Again he threw out his hands. "This man that we have called Prophet—this man that we have bent the knee to—he is nothing; nothing—" Once more emotion overpowered his words.

"Nothing?" Enid's voice was indistinct, her tongue dry.

"—Nothing but an impostor! An impostor! A thief!"

He spoke loudly—even violently. To his listener it seemed that his voice rang out, filling the room, filling the street outside, filling the whole world. As she had done in the Prophet's presence, she raised her hands and pressed them over her ears. But, even through her fingers, his tones came loud and penetrating.

"An impostor!" he cried, again. "A liar! A blasphemer!"

Her hands dropped from her face.

"Stop! Stop!" she cried, weakly.

But he was beyond appeal.

"You must hear!" he cried. "It is ordained. You have been the unwitting instrument by which the man has fallen."

"I? I? The instrument?" She stared at him with wide eyes and a white face.

"Yes, you!" He stepped to her side. "Without you, suspicion would never have been aroused. Without you, he might have carried out his base designs. It was the power of the Unseen that guided me on the day I entered the Presence Room and found you alone with him." He spoke hurriedly and disjointedly, but as the last word left his lips another expression crossed his face, as though a new suggestion passed through his mind.

"Did you see nothing strange in that Audience?" he demanded. "Did you see nothing strange in the fact that he—a Prophet of Sublime Mysteries—should hold your hand, as any man of the earth might hold it?" He bent still closer, jealousy and suspicion darkening his face.

Enid glanced at him fearfully. "No! No!" she said, sharply. "I—saw nothing strange. He was the Prophet."

Bale-Corphew's face relaxed.

"Ah!" he said, slowly. "I believe you. But, if you were blind, I saw." He paused and passed his handkerchief over his face. Cold as the day was, drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead.

"I saw. And from that hour the man was lost."

"Lost?"

"Yes, lost." He laughed excitedly; and to Enid the laugh sounded singularly unpleasant, sharp, and cruel. "From that day we have watched him—we, the Six. We have watched him and his friend—the dog who has dared to desecrate the name of Precursor. We have watched them night and day; we have seen them, listened to them hour after hour, while they believed themselves unobserved—?"

"And what do you know? What have you learned?" There was a strange faintness in the tone of her voice.

"Everything. Only yesterday we touched the key-stone of their scheme. To-night—this very night—they have planned an escape. They will attend as usual in the Place; they will fool us as they have fooled us before; and then, when the house is quiet—when the Six are at rest, exhausted by prayer and meditation—they will accomplish their vile work. They will plunder the Treasury of the Unseen!"

"Oh no! No!" With a swift movement she turned to him.

He looked at her for an instant, of silence, and then again the unpleasant, excited laugh escaped him.

"You are right," he cried, suddenly. "What you say is right. There will be no plunder. The Treasury of the Unseen will remain inviolate!"

As he paused she made no sound; but her eyes rested upon his, fascinated by their feverish brightness; and in the midst of her silent regard he spoke again, bending forward until his lips approached her ear.

"They have laid their plans," he whispered, with a sudden and savage exultation, "but we also have laid ours. And even we cannot reckon upon the consequences. The spiritual enthusiast is not easy to hold in check, once he has been aroused!"

Enid stared at him, the pupils of her eyes dilated, her lips pale.

"You mean—? You mean—?" she stammered; then her fear found voice. "What do you mean?" she demanded, in sharp, alarmed tones.

Bale-Corphew met her question, steadily.

"I mean," he said, with fierce vindictiveness, "that at the Gathering to-night he will be publicly denounced!"

He made the declaration slowly, and each word fell with overwhelming weight upon his companion's understanding. As in the bewildered mazes of a nightmare she saw the crowded chapel, the fanatical, unstable faces of the congregation, the six Arch-Mystics—outraged, incensed, unrelenting; and in their midst the Prophet, tall and grave and masterful, as she had seen him a hundred times. One man facing a sea of ungoverned emotion! At the vision her heart swelled suddenly and her soul sickened. With a gesture, almost as passionate as his own, she turned upon Bale-Corphew.

"You would denounce him before the People?" she said, incredulously. "You would trap him? One man against a hundred! Oh, it would be cowardly! Cruel!"

Bale-Corphew's face flamed to a deeper red.

"Cowardly? Cowardly? Do you know what you are saying? The man is a thief!"

For one moment she shrank before the epithet; the next she raised her head, her eyes flashing, her lips parted.

"You have no right to use that word. You have not seen him steal."

"Seen him? No. But the ears are as reliable as the eyes, and we have heard him declare that he intends to steal."

"Intends! Intends! Intentions are not acts." In her deep agitation, she turned upon him with a new demeanor.

"Oh, be merciful!" she cried. "Give him the benefit of mercy. Wait till the Assembly is over, and then accuse him. If you can prove your accusation, then justice can be done. On the other hand—"

"The other hand?" Again Bale-Corphew's cruel laugh broke from him. "He has not shrunk from lies—from imposture—from blasphemy. Is it likely he will shrink from his reward? Oh no! We will run no risks. The trap has closed. No one will gain access to him to-night until the hour of the Gathering has arrived. It will be my special—my sacred—duty to watch and guard." As he spoke his eyes seemed to devour her face, and before the expression in their depths her strength faltered.

"And why have you come here?" she asked, unsteadily. "Why have you come here? What has this to do with me?"

As she put the questions, he watched her closely; and when her voice quivered, a spasm of emotion—a wave of jealousy and suspicion—swept his face.

"Can you ask that question?" he demanded.

Enid wavered.

"Why not?" she murmured. "Why should I not?"

"Why not?" He laughed again, suddenly and savagely. "Because the man loves you. Because he stole out of the house to-day—and came here to you. I tracked him here and tracked him back again."

Enid shrank away from him.

"So—so you are a spy?" she said, in a confused, uneven voice.

He turned instantly, his passions aflame.

"A spy?" he cried. "I am a spy? Very well! We will see who comes out victor. The thief or the spy." His voice rose, his face darkened. The demon of jealousy that had pursued him for seven days was free of the leash at last.

"I wanted to know this," he exclaimed. "I wanted to be sure. I had my suspicions, but I wanted proof. On the day I surprised you with him, I suspected; to-day, when I saw him enter this house, I felt convinced—"

"Convinced of what?"

"Convinced that there is more in this matter than his love for you. That there is also—"

With a swift movement Enid stopped him. She was quivering violently, but she held her head high.

"Yes," she said, distinctly. "Yes, you are quite right. There is more in this matter than his love for me. There is also my love for him!"

Her eyes were blazing; her heart was beating fast. With an agitation equal to Bale-Corphew's own she moved to the fireplace and pressed the bell.

When the servant appeared she turned to her.

"Norris," she said, in a quiet voice, "show Mr. Bale-Corphew out."