It was through a thought of the dead Madley that he made it.  Since that night when he had thought in his greenness that a little studied neglect would bring the lovely Beckoner to her knees, and had made use of her own jealousy to banish her, he had not set eyes on those fifteen discarded chapters of Romilly.  He had thrown them back into the window-seat, forgotten their very existence.  But his own jealousy of Madley put him in mind of hers of her jilted rival of flesh and blood, and he remembered them....  Fool that he had been!  Had he, then, expected his Desire to manifest herself while there still existed the evidence of his divided allegiance?  What, and she with a passion so fierce and centred that it had not hesitated at the destruction, twice attempted, of her rival?  Fool that he had been!...

But if that was all the pledge and sacrifice she required she should have it—­ah, yes, and quickly!

He took the manuscript from the window-seat, and brought it to the fire.

He kept his fire always burning now; the warmth brought out the last vestige of odour of the flowers with which his room was banked.  He did not know what time it was; long since he had allowed his clock to run down—­it had seemed a foolish measurer of time in regard to the stupendous things that were happening to Oleron; but he knew it was late.  He took the Romilly manuscript and knelt before the fire.

But he had not finished removing the fastening that held the sheets together before he suddenly gave a start, turned his head over his shoulder, and listened intently.  The sound he had heard had not been loud—­it had been, indeed, no more than a tap, twice or thrice repeated—­but it had filled Oleron with alarm.  His face grew dark as it came again.

He heard a voice outside on his landing.

“Paul!...  Paul!...”

It was Elsie’s voice.

“Paul!...  I know you’re in...  I want to see you....”

He cursed her under his breath, but kept perfectly still.  He did not intend to admit her.

“Paul!...  You’re in trouble....  I believe you’re in danger... at least come to the door!...”

Oleron smothered a low laugh.  It somehow amused him that she, in such danger herself, should talk to him of his danger!...  Well, if she was, serve her right; she knew, or said she knew, all about it....

“Paul!...  Paul!...”

“Paul!...  Paul!...”  He mimicked her under his breath.

“Oh, Paul, it’s horrible!...”

Horrible, was it? thought Oleron.  Then let her get away....

“I only want to help you, Paul....  I didn’t promise not to come if you needed me....”

He was impervious to the pitiful sob that interrupted the low cry.  The devil take the woman!  Should he shout to her to go away and not come back?  No:  let her call and knock and sob.  She had a gift for sobbing; she mustn’t think her sobs would move him.  They irritated him, so that he set his teeth and shook his fist at her, but that was all.  Let her sob.