Softly the door opened. It was Sir Roland and none other--Sir Roland
wearing an old velvet smoking--jacket, composed as ever, his grey eyes
very level and inscrutable.

He paused for a single instant upon the threshold, then came noiselessly
in and closed the door.

Naomi sat motionless and speechless. She lacked the strength to rise.
Her hands were pressed upon her heart. She thought its beating would
suffocate her.

He came quietly across the room to her, not seeming to notice her
agitation.

"I should not have disturbed you at this hour if I had not been sure
that you were awake," he said.

Reaching her, he bent and touched her white cheek.

"Why, child, how cold you are!" he said.

She started violently back, and then, as a sudden memory assailed her,
she caught his hand and held it for an instant.

"It is nothing," she said with an effort. "You--you startled me."

"You are nervous tonight," said Sir Roland.

She shrank under his look.