She sank back at length, thankfully, in the darkness, and closed her eyes.  Whatever lay before her, she had escaped from the nightmare horror of the shadowy garden.

But as the brief drive neared its end, her anxiety revived.  Had Sir Roland indeed returned and discovered her absence?  Was it possible?

Her face was white and haggard as she entered the hall at last.  Her eyes were hunted.

The servant who opened to her looked at her oddly for a moment.

“What is it?” she said nervously.

“Sir Roland has returned, my lady,” he said.  “He arrived two hours ago, and went straight to his room, saying he would not disturb your ladyship.”

She turned away in silence, and mounted the stairs.  Did he know?  Had he guessed?  Was it that that had brought him back?

She entered her room, and dismissed the maid she found awaiting her.

Swiftly she threw off the pink domino, and began to loosen her hair with stiff, fumbling fingers, then shook it about her shoulders, and sank quivering upon a couch.  She could not go to bed.  The terror that possessed her was too intense, too overmastering.

Ah!  What was that?  Every pulse in her body leaped and stood still at sound of a low knock at the door.  Who could it be? gasped her fainting heart.  Not Sir Roland, surely!  He never came to her room now.

Softly the door opened.  It was Sir Roland and none other—­Sir Roland wearing an old velvet smoking—­jacket, composed as ever, his grey eyes very level and inscrutable.

He paused for a single instant upon the threshold, then came noiselessly in and closed the door.

Naomi sat motionless and speechless.  She lacked the strength to rise.  Her hands were pressed upon her heart.  She thought its beating would suffocate her.

He came quietly across the room to her, not seeming to notice her agitation.

“I should not have disturbed you at this hour if I had not been sure that you were awake,” he said.

Reaching her, he bent and touched her white cheek.

“Why, child, how cold you are!” he said.

She started violently back, and then, as a sudden memory assailed her, she caught his hand and held it for an instant.

“It is nothing,” she said with an effort.  “You—­you startled me.”

“You are nervous tonight,” said Sir Roland.

She shrank under his look.

“You see, I did not expect you,” she murmured.

“Evidently not.”  Sir Roland stood gravely considering her.  “I came back,” he said, after a moment, “because it occurred to me that you might be lonely after all, in spite of your assurance to the contrary.  I did not ask you to accompany me, Naomi.  I did not think you would care to do so.  But I regretted it later, and I have come back to remedy the omission.  Will you come with me to Scotland?”

His tone was quiet and somewhat formal, but there was in it a kindliness that sent the blood pulsing through her veins in a wave of relief even greater than her astonishment at his words.  He did not know, then.  That was her one all-possessing thought.  He could not know, or he had not spoken to her thus.