Each following day she found it harder to keep away from him. It was not his person, it was not his intellect, it was not his character; it could not be compatibility…Then what was it? What was this subtle attraction which was proving so increasingly overwhelming? Was it that, underneath person, intellect, character, there was something else-something which never came to the surface, but disclosed itself only to the something else in her? And was all love of this nature, or was it exceptional, prodigious?…

Whom to ask? Who loved nowadays? Betrothals and marriages she saw all around her, but if it wasn't money, it was sexual admiration-she could see nothing else. Might not that secret, incomprehensible impulse which drew her to him be more worthy of the name of love than these despicable physical infatuations of worldly men and women?…

At ten o'clock she left the hotel, procured a taxi on the front, and within a quarter of an hour was standing inside the booking-hall at Hove Station.

It was not yet half-past eleven as she mounted the steps of the Mertropole. She swept through the door, and approached the office window, assuming an air of hauteur which was contradicted by the trembling of her hands, as she fumbled in her bag for her card-case. Producing a card, she passed it over the counter to the lady clerk.

"Will you please have that sent up to Mrs. Richborough?"

The clerk looked at the card, and at her. She said nothing, but went to consul with someone else, who was out of sight; Isbel could hear them whispering together. Presently the girl came back, and requested her to accompany her to another room, adjoining the office. Isbel did so. She was begged to sit down, and then left to her own society, the door being closed upon her. It was all very solemn and mysterious.

A minute afterwards a well-dressed man of middle age entered the room. He had a florid German-looking face, and a bald forehead; he was wearing braided trousers, with an irreproachable frock-coat. Isbel took him to be the hotel manage.

"You are Miss Loment, madam?" he asked with suave gravity, gazing at the card in his hand.

She replied in the affirmative.

"You are inquiring for Mrs. Richborough?"

Isbel had risen to her feet.

"Yes; I wish to see her."

"You are a relative, madam?"

"Oh, no. Why?"

"It is my regrettable duty to inform you that Mrs. Richborough was taken suddenly ill in her room last night, and died almost immediately afterwards. A medical man fortunately was in attendance."

"Oh, good heavens!…" Isbel grasped the chair-back to steady herself.

"The precise time was 9.15. It was very sudden, and very sad…Naturally, we are anxious that this should not be known among the other guests. I feel sure that I can rely upon your discretion, madam."

"Oh, what a tragedy!…But surely Mr. Judge know of it?"

"Yes, Mr. Judge does know."

"Could I speak to him a minute, please? Will you send my name up?"

"I regret that it is impossible, madam. Mr. Judge left us this morning."

"Left you?…Do you mean he has gone away-altogether?"

"Yes, madam; he has returned to London."

"But-has he taken his things with him? Isn't he coming back?"

"No, he is not coming back…One moment, madam…" He consulted the card in his hand. "I believe he has left a letter for you in charge of the office. If you will pardon me, I will go and inquire."

Isbel could not even find words to thank him. She sat down, feeling as if the roof had fallen upon her. She understood that a catastrophe had happened, but she was unable to realise its final significance.

It was the clerk who brought the letter in, a moment or two later. She handed it to Isbel with a pleasant smile, and instantly retired.

She broke the seal with clumsy haste. The letter ran as follows:

"My dear Miss Loment.

"I am sorry to inform you that Mrs. Richborough died suddenly last night of heart failure. The doctor who attended her earlier in the evening had ordered her to bed, and she went there, but a little while late, according to her maid's evidence, she insisted upon rising in order to write an urgent letter, which letter she further insisted upon posting in the hotel box with her own hand. The additional strain upon her lowered vitality which this entailed evidently proved too much for her, for half an hour afterwards she ws discovered lying in a dying condition in her room. There will of course be an inquest.

"Under the sad circumstances, I feel that any meeting between us would be improper-doubtless you will agree with me. I have accordingly made my arrangements to return at once to town, and by the time you receive this letter-assuming that you have made your promised visit to Worthing-I shall be already on my way back there.

"I think it will be wise if we allow a considerable time to elapse before attempting to see one another again. We have both, I am afraid, acted rather more impulsively than is altogether consistent with worldly prudence, and, to put it at the lowest, an interval for reflection and a cool weighing of the whole situation will certainly not harm either of us. You will understand, of course, that I blame myself far more than you for the unfortunate happenings of the past few days.

"I am leaving my town address with the hotel people should you desire to write me a line in reply. I do not ask it.

"I do not say adieu, for I sincerely hope that at some future time we shall see a great deal of each other.

"Believe me to be, my dear Miss Loment, your earnest friend and well-wisher.

"Henry Judge"

After flashing through the letter from beginning to end, to extract its message, Isbel allowed it to slip from her hand, while she sat back with close eyes…Then she picked it up again, and twice re-read it, word by word. During the perusal her bosom rose and sank the blood mounting to her face, and once or twice she laughed…

Crushing the sheets into her handbag, she closed it with an angry snap.

So that was over!…

The manager escorted her to the outer door. At the foot of the hotel steps she came to a standstill, not knowing in the least what to do, or where to go. She caught sight of an elegantly dressed lady, in expensive furs, who was in the act of entering a closed car not five yards away from where she was standing. The chauffeur wsa taking his final instructions, preparatory to assuming his seat. The lady's back was towards her, but somehow her figure struck a familiar chord.

"…But first of all, Runhill court," said the unknown, as she stooped to get in.

Isbel felt bemused. It was not the destination named which dismayed her faculties, and made her feel as though she were in a dream-though this destination was extraordinary enough, in all conscience-but the intonation with which the words were uttered. That sweet, sinking whisper belonged only to one person of her acquaintance, and she could not conceive a second voice like it in the world. It was Mrs. Richborough's…

As the car drove off she obtained a single rapid glimpse of the lady's face. Mrs. Richborough was dead, and therefore it could not be she; but, then, it must be her twin sister. The resemblance was absolutely uncanny…Well, it was not difficult to understand why a sister should be there at such a distressful time-but what in the world was she doing at Runhill? What possible interest could she have in that house? Evidently some mystery was afoot…Could it be that Judge had arranged a meeting with her there in order to talk over the affairs of her late sister? But what affairs could there be to discuss between them? And why select that out-of-the-way spot for the interview? What did it all mean?…

She turned to the smart-looking young hotel door-porter, who still stood gazing after the car. "Who is that lady?"