years allowed him so much latitude. He cautiously at last opened
his garden gate and with soundless agility mounted the six stone
steps, his latch-key ready in his gloveless hand, and softly let
himself into the house.

Sheila was out, it seemed, for the maid had forgotten to light
the lamp. Without pausing to take off his greatcoat, he hung up
his hat, ran nimbly upstairs, and knocked with a light knuckle on
his bedroom door. It was closed, but no answer came. He opened
it, shut it, locked it, and sat down on the bedside for a moment,
in the darkness, so that he could scarcely hear any other sound,
as he sat erect and still, like some night animal, wary of
danger, attentively alert. Then he rose from the bed, threw off
his coat, which was clammy with dew, and lit a candle on the
dressing-table.

Its narrow flame lengthened, drooped, brightened, gleamed clearly.
He glanced around him, unusually contented--at the ruddiness of
the low fire, the brass bedstead, the warm red curtains, the soft
silveriness here and there. It seemed as if a heavy and dull
dream had withdrawn out of his mind. He would go again some day,
and sit on the little hard seat beside the crooked tombstone of
the friendless old Huguenot. He opened a drawer, took out his
razors, and, faintly whistling, returned to the table and lit a
second candle. And still with this strange heightened sense of
life stirring in his mind, he drew his hand gently over his chin
and looked unto the glass.

For an instant he stood head to foot icily still, without the
least feeling, or thought, or stir--staring into the