child then, and now she was growing old. The time had come to face the
realities of life, to put away the dreams. She believed that Fletcher
Hill was a good man, and he had been very patient. She quivered a little
at the thought of that patience of his. There was a cast-iron quality
about it, a forcefulness, that made her wonder. Had she ever really met
the man who dwelt within that coat of mail? Could there be some terrible
revelation in store for her? Would she some day find that she had given
herself to a being utterly alien to her in thought and impulse? He had
shown her so little--so very little--of his soul.

Did he really love her, she wondered? Or had he merely determined to win
her because it had been so hard a task? He was a man who revelled in
overcoming difficulties, in asserting his grim mastery in the face of
heavy odds. He was never deterred by circumstances, never turned back
from any purpose upon the accomplishment of which he had set his mind.
His subordinates were afraid to tell him of failure. She had heard it
said that Bloodhound Hill could be a savage animal when roused.

There came a low sound at her door, the soft turning of the handle,
Jack's voice whispered through the gloom.

"Are you asleep, little 'un?"

She started up on the bed. "Oh, Jack, come in, dear! Come in!"

He came to her, put his arms about her, and held her close. "Fletcher's
been telling me," he whispered into her ear. "Adela's gone to bed. It's
quite all right, little 'un, is it? You're not--sorry?"

She caught the anxiety in the words as she clung to him. "I--don't think