THE BETRAYAL

CHAPTER I

THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

Like a clap of thunder, the north wind, rushing seawards, seemed
suddenly to threaten the ancient little building with destruction. The
window sashes rattled, the beams which supported the roof creaked and
groaned, the oil lamps by which alone the place was lit swung perilously
in their chains. A row of maps designed for the instruction of the
young--the place was a schoolhouse--commenced a devil's dance against
the wall. In the street without we heard the crash of a fallen
chimneypot. My audience of four rose timorously to its feet, and I,
glad of the excuse, folded my notes and stepped from the slightly raised
platform on to the floor.

"I am much obliged to you for coming," I said, "but I think that it is
quite useless to continue, for I can scarcely make you hear, and I am
not at all sure that the place is safe."

I spoke hastily, my one desire being to escape from the scene of my
humiliation unaccosted. One of my little audience, however, was of a
different mind. Rising quickly from one of the back seats, she barred
the way. Her broad comely face was full of mingled contrition and
sympathy.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Ducaine," she exclaimed. "It does seem a cruel
pity, doesn't it?--and such a beautiful lecture! I tried so hard to
persuade dad and the others to come, but you know how they all love