The clock on the mantelpiece struck two, and Mordaunt rose from his chair to close the window.  The night was very still and dark.  He stood for a few moments breathing the moist air.  From somewhere away in the distance there came the weird cry of an owl—­the only sound in a waste of silence.  He leaned his head against the window-sash with a sensation of physical sickness.  His heart was heavy as lead.

“Trevor!”

It was no more than a whisper, but he heard it.  He turned.  “Chris!”

She stood before him, her white draperies caught together with one hand, her hair flowing in wide ripples all about her, her eyes anxiously raised to his.

“Trevor,” she said, “what is the matter?”

There was a species of desperate courage in the low question.  The fingers that grasped her wrapper were tightly clenched.

He closed the window.  “Have you been lying awake for me?” he said.  “I am sorry.”

“Something is the matter,” she said with conviction.  “Won’t you tell me what it is?  I—­I would rather know.”

“I will tell you in the morning, dear,” he said gently.  “You must go back to bed.  I am coming myself now.”

But Chris stood still.  “I want to know now, please, Trevor,” she said.  “I shall not sleep at all unless I know.”

He put his arm about her, looking down at her with great tenderness.  “Must I tell you now?” he said, a hint of weariness in his voice.

She did not resist his touch, but neither did she yield herself to him.  She stood within the encircling arm, looking straight up at him with wide, resolute eyes.

“It is something to do with Bertie,” she said, in the same tone of unquestioning conviction.

He raised his eyebrows.  “What makes you think so?”

She frowned a little.  “It doesn’t matter, does it?  Won’t you tell me what has happened?”

He hesitated momentarily; then; “Yes, I will tell you,” he said.  “Bertrand is leaving to-morrow—­for good.”

He felt her stiffen against his arm, and for the first time he noticed her pallor and the unusual steadfastness of her eyes.  He realized that she was putting strong restraint upon herself, and the fact made her strangely unfamiliar to him.  He was accustomed to vivid speech and impetuous action.  He scarcely knew her in this mood, although he recognized that he had seen it at least once before.

“Why?” Her lips scarcely moved as they asked the question.  Her eyes never left his face.

He drew her to the writing-table on which his cheque-book still lay open at the place whence a cheque had been abstracted with its counterfoil.

“Sit down,” he said, “and I will tell you.”

She sat down in silence.

He knelt beside her as he had knelt on their wedding-night, and took her cold hands into his own.

“I think you know,” he said quietly, “that I have always trusted Bertrand implicitly.”