fire-flames shining. It was almost a physical discomfort, this
longing unspeakable for the twilight, the green secrecy and the
silence of the graves. 'Keep them out of the way,' he said in a
low voice; 'it will be dark when I come in.' His hardened face
lit up. 'It's useless to attempt to dissuade me.'

'Why must you always be hurting me? why do you seem to delight in
trying to estrange me?' Husband and wife faced each other across
the clear-lit room. He did not answer.

'For the last time,' she said in a quiet, hard voice, 'I ask you
not to go.'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'Ask me not to come back,' he said;
'that's nearer your hope.' He turned his face to the fire.
Without moving he heard her go out, return, pause, and go out
again. And when he deliberately wheeled round in his chair the
little key lay conspicuous there on the counterpane.



CHAPTER NINE

The last light of sunset lay in the west; and a sullen wrack of
cloud was mounting into the windless sky when Lawford entered the
country graveyard again by its dark weather-worn lych-gate. The
old stone church with its square tower stood amid trees, its
eastern window faintly aglow with crimson and purple. He could
hear a steady, rather nasal voice through its open lattices. But
the stooping stones and the cypresses were out of sight of its