At last the taxi drew up before the door of her home—­was it home still? she wondered.  Her hand trembled so she could not unfasten the latch, and the chauffeur, descending from his seat, came to her assistance.

“Wait,” she said in a strangled voice.  “Wait; I may want you.”

At the door of her apartment she had to pause, before she rang, to gather courage, to obtain control of her whirling brain.  At last the ornate door swung inward and her butler faced her with welcoming eye.

“Mrs. Marteen!  Pray pardon the undress livery!  No word had been received.”

She took note of the darkened rooms.  Only one switch, whose glow she had seen turned on as the servant came to the door, gave light.  The place was hollow and unlived in as an outworn shell.

“Miss Dorothy?” she said, striving to give her voice a natural tone.

The butler h’mmed.  “Miss Dorothy has gone, Madam, with Madam’s sister—­since yesterday.  They left no address, and said nothing about when they might be expected.  Mr. Gard had been with Miss Dorothy in the afternoon.”

Mrs. Marteen caught hold of the broad and solid back of a carved hall chair and stood motionless, leaning her full weight on its ancient oak for support.

“That’s all right, Stevens,” she said at length.  “You needn’t notify the other servants that I have returned—­for the present.  I’m going right out again.  I just stopped in for some important papers I may have need of.  Just light the hall and the library, will you?”

With the falling of the sword that severed her last hope a new self-possession came to her—­the quiet of despair.  Her brain cleared, her fevered pulse became normal, the weariness that had racked her frame passed from her.  She only asked to be alone for a little—­alone with her love and her memories.  She quarreled no more with Fate.

The butler preceded her, lighting the way.  At the door of the library, she dismissed him with a wave of her hand.  Calmly she entered and softly closed the door behind her.  In the blaze of the electrics she saw every nook and corner of the room—­photographically—­every tone and color, every glint and gleam, but her mind fastened itself with remorseless logic to one thing only—­the sliding panel.  In her distracted vision it seemed to move, to slip back even as she gazed.  The grain of the wood appeared to writhe, to creep up and down and ripple as if with the evil life of what lay behind.  She forced herself to walk across the room to lay her weakened fingers, from which all sense of touch seemed to have withdrawn, upon that vibrating panel.  The face of the safe stood revealed.  Slowly with growing fear she turned the numbers of the combination and paused—­she could not face the ordeal, but with the releasing of the clutch, the weight of the door caused it to open slowly, as if an invisible force drew it outward and Mrs. Marteen saw before her the empty shelves