At the front door he called me.  With his back to it he held out his hands, took mine in his, crushed them in clasp so close they hurt.

“Danny,” he said, “why do you torment me so?  You don’t know what you’re doing, living where such things are possible as have taken place tonight; where any time you may be—­”

His voice broke, and in amazement I looked at him.  Horror and fear were in his face.

“Do you think it is so awful a thing to see a poor little creature who has been hurt and needs help?” I drew my hands away.  “You talk as if I were a child, Selwyn.”

“You are a child in your knowledge of—­of certain phases of life.  If I could only marry you tomorrow and take you away from here you should never know them!”

“Well, you can’t marry me to-morrow!” I made effort to laugh, but Selwyn’s face, his manner, frightened me.  “I want to stay down here and—­and stop being as ignorant as a child of things women should know.  Behind the shelter of ignorance most women have already shirked too long.”  I held out my hand, “If you stay a bit longer, Selwyn, I’ll say things I shouldn’t.  Goodnight.”

With a shrug of his shoulders he went down the steps, and as I watched him, for a moment I felt tempted to call him back.  It was not unusual for us to part indignant with each other.  We invariably clashed, disagreed, and argued hotly if we got on certain subjects, but to-night I did not want him to leave angrily.  Something had made me afraid and uncertain and uneasy.  I could not define, could only feel it, and if Selwyn should fail me—­ Shivering, I stood in the doorway, and as I started to go in I noticed a young fellow across the street under a tree, who seemed to be watching the house.  He was evidently nervous and moved restlessly in the small circle of the shadow cast by the bare branches.  Selwyn apparently did not see him, and, crossing the street, was close upon him before he knew he was there.  To my astonishment I saw him start and stop, saw him take the man by the arm.

“What in the name of Heaven—­” In the still, cold air I could hear distinctly.  “Why are you down here this time of night?  Where are you going?”

If there was answer I could not hear it, but I could see the movement of the young man’s shoulders, could see him draw away and turn his back to Selwyn.  Putting his hands in his pockets, he started toward the corner lighted by the flickering gas-jet, then turned and walked to the one on which there was no light.  Had I known him, I could not have recognized him in the darkness, but he was evidently well known to Selwyn, for together they went down the street and out of sight.  I wonder who he was.

For the first time since I came to Scarborough Square, Mrs. Mundy has not been to-day her chatty self.  She does not seem to want to talk—­that is of the girl I want to talk about.  When, in my sitting-room this morning, I asked her the girl’s name she said she did not know it, did not know where she lived, or what had happened to her, and at my look of incomprehension at her seeming disregard, she had turned away and busied herself in dusting the books on the well-filled table.