sure that Adare's wife was not far behind him, concealed in the
deeper gloom.

Suddenly the sound of a falling object came to his ears, as if a
book had dropped from a table, or a chair had overturned. It was
from the end of the hall--almost opposite his room. At his own
door he stopped again and listened. This time he could hear
voices, a low and unintelligible murmur. It was quite easy for him
to locate the sound. He moved across to the other door, and
hesitated. He had already disobeyed Josephine's injunction to
remain with her father. Should he take a further advantage by
obeying John Adare's command to bring his wife and daughter? A
strange and subdued excitement was stirring him. Since the
appearance of the threatening face at his window--the knowledge
that in another moment he would have invited death from out of the
night--he felt that he was no longer utterly in the hands of the
woman he loved. And something stronger than he could resist
impelled him to announce his presence at the door.

At his knock there fell a sudden silence beyond the thick panels.
For several moments he waited, holding his breath. Then he heard
quick steps, the door swung slowly open, and he faced Josephine.

"Pardon me for interrupting you," he apologized in a low voice.
"Your father sent me for you and your mother. He says that you
must come and wake the baby."

Slowly Josephine held out a hand to him. He was startled by its
coldness.