But the ordeal that both were mutely dreading did not take place that night.  Nap did not present himself at the dinner-table, and they dined alone in unspoken relief.

Anne went to Lucas as usual when the meal was over, but she thought he seemed tired and she did not remain with him long.

He kept her hand for a moment when she stooped to bid him good-night.

“Anne,” he said gently, “I just want you to know, dear, that Nap will be all right.  Don’t be anxious any.  There is no need.”

He desired to reassure her, she saw; and she bent and kissed him.  And then for a moment a queer gust of passion possessed her, shook her from head to foot.

“Oh, Luke,” she whispered, “can’t you send him away again?”

He looked up at her oddly, with eyes that seemed to see beyond her.  And then, “Good-night, dear,” he said, as if he had not heard.

She turned from him in silence.  It was the first time she had ever appealed to Lucas Errol in vain.

She went to her room early that night.  She told herself she must leave on the morrow.  She was urged by a deep unrest.  She could not remain under the same roof with this man who had once so cruelly tortured her.  She could not.  Lucas must understand this.  He must never ask it of her, never—­never!

She did not in the least understand the latter’s attitude.  The more she thought of it, the more it troubled her.  She felt as if he had suddenly ceased to be on her side, had, as it were, shut off his sympathy and left her groping and alone.  It was not like him to treat her thus.  It hurt her subtly, wounding her as she had never expected to be wounded, shaking her faith in what she had ever believed to be immutable.  And then she remembered the physical weakness with which he had wrestled so long, and a great pity flooded her heart.  She would not let herself be hurt any longer.  Was he not reserving his strength for her sake?  And could she not, for his, face bravely this sudden obstacle that had arisen in her path?  Moreover, had he not told her that all would be well?  And he had said it as one who knew.  Why, then, was she harbouring this wild dismay?

Why?  Why?  She asked the question, but she did not seek the answer.  She dared not.

And yet in the morning she went down with a calm aspect, resolute and unafraid.  Once more she was compelling herself to do simply that which lay nearest to her hand.

Nap came out of a room near the foot of the stairs as she descended.  He scarcely looked at her, but quite obviously he had been awaiting her coming.

“May I have two words with you before you join the mater?” he asked.

With her whole soul she wanted to refuse.  Yet without visible hesitation she yielded.  She turned aside into the room he had just quitted.

He followed, and, closing the door, came forward to the table.  It was littered with guns and cleaning apparatus.  He had evidently been employing himself while he waited, and he at once took up an oily rag and resumed operations, his swarthy face bent over his task, his lips very firmly compressed.