he must have been impressed by the subdued splendour of the room, and the grace and youth of the dominating figure in the midst.  Mark was too absorbed to-day in the spiritual drama which he must now force to its conclusion to realise that he had also come to threaten the destruction of Molly’s material world and all the glory thereof.  He had, too, so far forgotten himself, that the mischief Molly had wrought against him had faded into the background of his consciousness.  His absorbing anxiety lay in the extreme difficulty of his task.  It would need an angel from Heaven, gifted too with great knowledge of human nature, to accomplish what he meant to attempt.  First he would throw everything into the desperate endeavour to make her give up the will simply and entirely from the highest motives.  But what possibility was there of success?  Why should he hope that, just because he called and asked her for it, she would give up all that for which she had sold her soul?  He could not feel that he was a prophet sent by God from whose lips would fall such inspired words that the iron frost would thaw and the great depths of her nature be broken up.  In fact, he felt singularly uninspired, and very much embarrassed.  And when he had tried the impossible (he said to himself), and had given her the last chance of going back on this ugly fraud from nobler motives than that of fear, and had failed—­he must then enter on the next stage and must merge the priest’s office in that of the ambassador.  He must bring home to her that what she clung to was already lost, and that nothing but shame and disgrace lay before her.  He had the case, as presented by Sir Edmund’s letter in all its convicting simplicity, clearly in his mind—­quite as clearly as the facts of Molly’s own confession to himself.  It would not be difficult to crush the criminal, to make her see the hopeless horror of the trial that must follow unless she consented to a compromise.  But it was the completeness of her defeat that he dreaded the most; it was for that last stage of his plan that he was gathering unconsciously all his nerve-power together.  He seemed to hear with ominous distinctness her words at their last meeting:  “If I can’t go through with it (which is quite possible) I shall throw up the sponge and get out of this world as soon as I can.”  That had been spoken without any sort of fear of detection, without the least suspicion that she would have no choice in the matter of giving up her ill-gotten wealth.  What he dreaded unutterably was the despair that must overpower her as he developed the long chain of evidence against her.  As he came into her presence, overwhelmed with these thoughts, he was also anxiously recalling two mental notes.  He must make her clearly understand that he had not betrayed her by one word or hint to Sir Edmund Grosse or any living human being; and secondly, he thought it very important to impress upon her that Sir Edmund and Lady Rose were of opinion that Larrone