“Something important?” he heard her voice tremble.  He remembered then that cheated and humiliated lovers had been known to shoot women; he had raised his voice; perhaps, what with her bad conscience, she was thinking of that.

“Understand me,” he added, speaking lower.  “I shall be kind.  I shall do nothing violent nor disagreeable.  I want five minutes, at your house, in the Park—­anywhere.  Though I would prefer to see you alone, I would consent to the presence of your aunt.  But you must see me!”

“I must see you,” she repeated—­musingly he thought—­“Aunt Paula is away.”

“Could you come at once to that Eighty-sixth Street entrance of the Park?”

A pause, and—­

“I will come,” she said.

“Good-by—­at once,” he answered, and hung up the receiver, without further word.  Outside, he hurled himself into a taxicab.  Spurred on by an offer of an extra dollar for speed, the chauffeur raced north.

Annette was sitting on a bench by the Park gate.  Not until he had paid and dismissed the chauffeur did she look up.  She wore a smile, which faded as she caught his expression.  With its fading came the old, worn look; he had never, even at that first meeting on the train, seen it more pronounced.  A flood of perverse tenderness came over him; he found himself obliged to steel his heart.  And so, it was Annette who spoke first: 

“What is the matter—­oh, what has happened?”

He stood towering over her.

“Miss Markham, I came to ask a simple question.  Do not be afraid to tell me the truth.  What did you do last night?”

“What did I do last night?” she repeated.  “Why do you ask?”

“Answer, please.  Where were you last night—­what did you do?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“It will be better, I assure you,” he replied, “if you do not act with me.”

“You have never seemed harsh before—­”

“Will you answer me?”

A blush ran over her exquisite whiteness.

“I have to remember,” she said, “that perhaps I once gave you the right to ask such things of me.  Last night I went to bed just after dinner.”

“Exactly when?”

“A little after eight.  I have been tired lately.  Aunt Paula saw that I went to sleep.”

“Is that all?” sharply.

“Why, yes.  I slept heavily.  The old sleep.  The one which leaves me tired.”

“You did not get up?”

“I am beginning to question your right to—­”

“But answer me—­Did you wake?”

“No.  I slept until seven this morning.  Walter, Walter—­” she had never used his Christian name before, and at the moment it struck him only as one of her Circe arts—­“you are cruel!  What do you mean by this?  Why do you trouble me so?”

Now that she had lied in his face, he felt the blood surging scarlet behind his eyes.  It came to him that, if he remained a moment longer, he should lose all control.  Without another word, without a backward look, he turned and walked away.