he was in--it had not been her custom for a long time--and servants were
curious people; but she looked at the hall-table. Yes, there was a hat
which had evidently just been placed there, and gloves, and a stick. He
was at home, then.

She hurried to her room, dropped her opera-cloak on a chair, looked at
herself in the glass, a little fluttered and critical, and then crossed
the hallway to Eglington's bedroom. She listened for a moment. There
was no sound. She turned the handle of the door softly, and opened it.
A light was burning low, but the room was empty. It was as she thought,
he was in his study, where he spent hours sometimes after he came home,
reading official papers. She went up the stairs, at first swiftly, then
more slowly, then with almost lagging feet. Why did she hesitate? Why
should a woman falter in going to her husband--to her own one man of all
the world? Was it not, should it not be, ever the open door between
them? Confidence--confidence--could she not have it, could she not get
it now at last? She had paused; but now she moved on with quicker step,
purpose in her face, her eyes softly lighted.

Suddenly she saw on the floor an opened letter. She picked it up, and,
as she did so, involuntarily observed the writing. Almost mechanically
she glanced at the contents. Her heart stood still. The first words
scorched her eyes.

"Eglington--Harry, dearest," it said, "you shall not go to sleep
to-night without a word from me. This will make you think of me
when . . . "

Frozen, struck as by a mortal blow, Hylda looked at the signature. She
knew it--the cleverest, the most beautiful adventuress which the