“That is enough, Evelyn.  You have said all that is necessary.  I deserve it, too, for meddling in your affairs.  It may satisfy you to know that I have always despised you.  Having confessed, I can only add that we cannot live another hour under the same roof.  You need not order me to go.  I shall do so of my own accord—­gladly.”  Penelope turned to the door.  She was as cold as ice.

“It is the first time you have ever done anything to please me.  You may go in the morning.”

“I shall go to-night!”

“As you like.  It is near morning.  Where do you expect to go at this hour of night?”

“I am not afraid of the night.  To-morrow I shall send over from the village for my trunks.”  She paused near the door and then came back to Cecil’s side.  “Good-bye, Cecil.  I’ll write.  Good-bye.”  He looked up with a hazy smile.

“G’night,” he muttered thickly.

Without another word or so much as a glance at Lady Bazelhurst, Penelope Drake went swiftly from the room.  The big hall clock struck the half-hour after eleven.  Some one—­a woman—­was laughing in the billiard-room below; the click of the balls came to her ears like the snapping of angry teeth.  She did not hesitate; it was not in her nature.  The room in which she had found so much delight was now loathsome to her.  With nervous fingers she threw the small things she most cherished into a bag—­her purse, her jewels, her little treasures.  Somehow it seemed to her as if she were hurrying to catch a night train, that was all.  With her own strong young arms she dragged the two huge trunks from the closet.  Half an hour later they were full and locked.  Then she looked about with a dry, mirthless smile.

“I wonder where I am to go?” she murmured, half aloud, A momentary feeling of indecision attacked her.  The click of the balls had ceased, the clock had struck twelve.  It was dark and still, and the wind was crying in the trees.

* * * * *

“She won’t go,” Lady Bazelhurst was saying to herself, as she sat, narrow-eyed and hateful, in her window looking out into the night.  “Life is too easy here.”  The light from the porch lanterns cast a feeble glow out beyond the porte-cochere and down the drive.  As she stared across the circle, the figure of a woman suddenly cut a diametric line through it, and lost itself in the wall of blackness that formed the circumference.  Lady Evelyn started and stared unbelievingly into the darkness, striving to penetrate it with her gaze.

“It was she—­Penelope,” she cried, coming to her feet.  “She’s really gone—­she meant it.”  For many minutes she peered out into the night, expecting to see the shadow returning.  A touch of anxious hope possessing her, she left the window and hurried down the corridor to Penelope’s room.  What she found there was most convincing.  It was not a trick of the lanterns.  The shadow had been real.  It must be confessed that the peevish heart of Lady Bazelhurst beat rather rapidly as she hastened back to the window to peer anxiously out into the sombre park with its hooting owls and chattering night-bugs.  The mournful yelp of a distant dog floated across the black valley.  The watcher shuddered as she recalled stories of panthers that had infested the great hills.  A small feeling of shame and regret began to develop with annoying insistence.