He took her suddenly into his arms.  In that moment he was the lover she had craved for—­strong, passionate, and reckless.

“All the love that my heart has ever known,” he cried, “is yours, Elizabeth!  Every thought and every hope is yours.  You are my life.  You saved me—­you made me what I am.  The play is yours, my brain is yours, there isn’t a thought or a dream or a wish that isn’t for you—­of you—­yours!”

He kissed her as he had never dreamed of kissing any woman.  It was the one supreme moment of their life and their love.  Time passed uncounted....

Then interruption came, suddenly and tragically.  Without knock or ring, the door was flung open and slammed again.  Beatrice stood there, still in her shabby clothes, her veil pushed back, gloveless and breathless.  Her clenched hand flew out towards Philip as though she would have struck him.

“You liar!” she shrieked.  “You’ve had my money!  You’ve spent it!  You’ve stolen it!  Thief!  Murderer!”

She paused, struggling for breath, tore her hat from her head and threw it on the table.  Her face was like the face of a virago, her eyes blazed, her cheeks were as pale as death save for one hectic spot of colour.

“You are talking nonsense, Beatrice,” he expostulated.

“Don’t lie to me!” she shouted.  “You can lie in the dock when you stand there and tell them you never murdered Douglas Romilly!  That makes you cringe, doesn’t it?  I don’t want to make a scene, but the woman you’re in love with had better hear what I have to say.  Are you going to give me back my money, Philip?”

“As I stand here,” he declared solemnly, “I have not touched that money or been near the bank where it was deposited.  I swear it.  Every penny I have spent since I moved into this apartment, I have spent from my earnings.  My own royalties come to over a hundred pounds a week—­more than sufficient to keep me in luxury.  I never meant to touch that money.  I have not touched it.”

His words carried conviction with them.  She stood there for several seconds, absolutely rigid, her eyes growing larger and rounder, her lips a little parted.  Bewilderment was now struggling with her passion.

“Who in God’s name, then,” she asked hoarsely, “could have known about the money and forged his signature!  I tell you that I’ve seen it with my own eyes, a few minutes ago, in the bank.  They showed me into a little cupboard, a place without any roof, and laid it there before me on the desk—­his cheque and signature for the whole amount.”

Philip looked at her earnestly, oppressed by a sense of coming trouble.

“Beatrice,” he said, “I wouldn’t deceive you.  I should be a fool to try, shouldn’t I?  I can only repeat what I have said.  I have never been near the bank.  I have never touched that money.”

She shivered a little where she stood.  It was obvious that she was convinced, but her sense of personal injustice remained unabated.