She was a betrothed girl, and honour commanded she go back at once. It was untrue…she did not love Judge, she did love Marshall. On the last occasion she had met Judge by chance, therefore she was not at fault, but if now she persisted in repeating the adventure she would be committing a sin of conscience. And how would it be possible for her ever to hold up her head again among her friends, if she elected to act with such disgusting faithlessness towards a true-hearted man of her own age, in order to accept the sudden protestations of emotional affinity of an elderly widower?…She buried her face in her hands…

But it was out of the question to turn tail now, without first clearing things up. If she did, it would simply mean the whole torturing business over again-the same failure of memory, the same anxiety to find out what had happened, the same dallyings with Judge, the same surreptitious visits and counter-visits, the same humiliating scheming and deception, the same lowering of her entire moral and physical tone, and in the end…exposure! If she were so miserably weak and cowardly, so unsure of her own moral fibre, that she dared not meet a strange man in a private place for ten minutes, in order to finish with him once for all, then affairs had arrived at a very serious impasse, and she was deliberately turning her back on the only apparent means of escape from an impossible situation.

However much she dreaded it, there was really no alternative to her seeing Judge upstairs just this once more…not as stolen joy, but in order to put a definite end to their disagreeable intimacy. Exactly how this was to be effected she did not know, but, since he was a gentleman, he would of course make it his business to devise some plan…After all, this dreadful manor house was his, he was responsible for what went on inside it; if there were mysteries there requiring a solution, he had no earthly right to call upon her for assistance…

She got up and mechanically shook out her garments. Slowly climbing the remaining stairs, she again stood in the familiar ante-chamber, with its three doors. Without any hesitation whatever she advanced to the middle one, and, sharply turning the handle, let herself into the apartment, where last Monday she had met Judge.

Nothing was different. There were the same panelled walls, the same polished flooring, the same solitary couch at the end of the room. She cast a troubled glance round, and sat down, with heaving bosom, to wait…

Five minutes later the door was thrown open, and Judge walked in. He stopped where he was, looked anxiously at Isbel and at the same time pushed the door to, behind him, but failed to close. Isbel gazed in his direction with equal earnestness, but she did not offer to rise.

"I've got away, as you can see," began Judge. "May I sit down?"

"Please!" She made space for him. They both sat in stiff attitudes, at some distance from each other.

There was an awkward pause, which Isbel broke by saying: "I don't wish to come here again, so we must think of some way of ending it."

"I quite understand."

"It's making my existence intolerable."

"It was madness on my part to accept that scarf. That's the root of all the mischief. I ought to have known that we should remember nothing of the circumstances under which it came into my possession."

"We were both to blame for that. It doesn't matter now. But I shan't come here again, so I wish to ask you to take steps to prevent a repetition."

"Very well. I'll write a note before we go down, and put it in my vest pocket, where I shall be sure to strike it…But are we not to see that other room?"

Isbel, glancing at him, uttered an involuntary little exclamation.

"What's the matter?" asked Judge.

"Nothing-but how extraordinarily young you look!"

"You are strangely alter, too. Not younger, not even more beautiful, I think, but…more wonderful… It's a weird, mystical room, there's no doubt."

"Have you still no idea where we are?"

"None."

She pointed towards the walls "Al this is workmen's work."

"We daren't think otherwise. But the place is intensely dreamlike…and yet I can't remember having ever enjoyed a more poignant sense of actuality."

"Was it accident, or fate, that brought us here together last time? It has been puzzling me. It looks as if something-perhaps the house itself-were throwing us together, without our wills being in any way consulted…Is such a thing possible, do you think?"

"We cannot think it. of what possible advantage can it be to an unseen Power that I should be forced to play the part of a persecutor, and you that of a victim?"

"Aren't we both voctims? To me we seem like moths fluttering round a lamp. I expect a moth has no memory, either-only instinct and a capacity for suffering…I see no end to it; we shall return here again and again, until our wings are burnt indeed!"

Her voice caught a little. Judge moved closer to her, and placed a hand on her sleeve, but lightly and without familiarity.

"We are not moths, but creatures endowed with reason, and we can blow our lamp out without waiting for the tragedy. If necessary, I will shut the place up, and go abroad for a time. It won't be long before you have forgotten all about the affair."

Isbel gave him a singular, half-wistful smile. "Have you sufficient strength of character to do this?"

"Yes; if I were once assured that your happiness is involved. To secure that, I would willingly burn the whole house to the ground."

"I know it."

"And I know that you know it; and that is my reward."

There was a break in the conversation, but she made no movement to disengage her arm. After a moment she said very quietly:

"It's just because you ask less than other men that I can afford to give you more. You understand that?"

"So let it be," replied Judge.

"Are you content?"

"I have confessed my feelings, and you have not withdrawn your friendship. That fixes our relations, and I have no desire to transgress the bounds laid down."

"Because your temper is naturally noble," said Isbel. "All the other men I have met have been plebeians, but you are made of different material, and that is why you act so differently…When I go downstairs again, I shall go downstairs indeed!…"

The were so absorbed in their talk that neither of them observed that the door had become pushed half-open, and that a figure stood on the threshold, watching them in silence.

It was Mrs. Richborough!

It did not appear how long she had been standing there, but suddenly Isbel looked up. She uttered a little scream, wrenched her arm free, and started to her feet. Judge followed the direction of her horrified stare, and swore under his breath; he also got up.

"I'm sorry if I've frightened you," said Mrs. Richborough quietly, without smiling. "I won't stay-but where are we, and what does it all mean?"

There was a tense silence.

"I'm afraid Miss Loment feels slightly upset at finding herself here," offered Judge at last, in a fairly firm voice. "I have been trying to reassure her. We met here by accident."

"But what part of the house is this? I thought the East Room was at the top, immediately under the roof?"

"So I believe."

"Then where are we?"

"Higher still, it appears. You know as much as I do about it, Mrs. Richborough…You followed me after all, then?"

"Yes. Your manner struck me as peculiar, and I was suspicious. I kept you in sight as far as the East Room, but there you shut the door after you, and I didn't venture to intrude at first. Your direction was so very decided that I felt positive it was a got-up thing. I listened outside for voices for some minutes, but, as everything was quite quiet, at last I did summon courage to enter. You weren't there, but I caught sight of another flight of stairs leading upwards, so very naturally I made use of them. And here I am."