It was on a cold, dark evening two days later that Major Coningsby returned from the first run of the year, and tramped, mud-splashed and stiff from hard riding, into his gloomy house.  A gust of rain blew swirling after him, and he turned, swearing, and shut the great door with a bang.  It had not been a good day for sport.  The ground had been sodden, and the scent had washed away.  He had followed the hounds for miles to no purpose and had galloped home at last in sheer disgust.  To add to his grievances he had called upon Lady Emberdale on his way back, and had not found her in.  “Gone to tea with her precious Admiral, I suppose!” he had growled, as he rode away, which, as it chanced, was the case.  The suspicion had not improved his mood, and he was very much out of humour when he finally reached his own domain.  Striding into the library, he turned on the threshold to curse his servant for not having lighted the lamp, and the man hastened forward nervously to repair the omission.  This accomplished, he as hastily retired, glancing furtively over his shoulder as he made his escape.

Coningsby tramped to the hearth, and stood there, beating his leg irritably with his riding-whip.  There was a heavy frown on his face.  He did not once raise his eyes to the picture above him.  He was still thinking of Lady Emberdale and the Admiral.  Finally, with a sudden idea of refreshing himself, he wheeled towards the table.  The next instant, he stood and stared as if transfixed.

A woman dressed in black, and thickly veiled, was standing facing him under the lamp.

He gazed at her speechlessly for a second or two, then passed his hand across his eyes.

“Great heavens!” he said slowly, at last.

She made a quick movement of the hands that was like a gesture of shrinking.

“You don’t know me?” she asked, in a voice so low as to be barely audible.

For a moment there flashed into his face the curious, listening look that is seen on the faces of the blind.  Then violently he strode forward.

“I should know that voice in ten thousand!” he cried, his words sharp and quivering.  “Take off your veil, woman!  Show me your face!”

The hunger in his eyes was terrible to see.  He looked like a dying man reaching out impotent hands for some priceless elixir of life.

“Your face!” he gasped again hoarsely, brokenly.  “Show me your face!”

Mutely she obeyed him, removed hat and veil with fingers that never faltered, and turned her sad, calm face towards him.  For seconds longer he stared at her, stared devouringly, fiercely, with the eyes of a madman.  Then, suddenly, with a great cry, he stumbled forward, flinging himself upon his knees at the table, with his face hidden on his arms.

“Oh, I know you!  I know you!” he sobbed.  “You’ve tortured me like this before.  You’ve made me think I had only to open my arms to you, and I should have you close against my heart.  It’s happened night after night, night after night!  Naomi!  Naomi!  Naomi!”