Tears dimmed Joan’s eyes and she tried to smile.

The whole weird and unbelievable experience was making her distrust herself, and the storm was more and more unnerving her.  She feared she could not hold out much longer.

“You’re a—­damned good little actress!” Raymond gave a hard, loud laugh so unlike his own wholesome laugh that Joan started back.

“I want you to go away at once!” her eyes flashed.  “I think you must be mad.”

“But—­the storm.”  Raymond walked across the room.

“I do not care—­about the storm.  I want you to go!” and now Joan retreated and unconsciously took her stand behind a chair.

A sudden, blinding flash, a deafening crash and—­the lights went out!

In the terrifying blackness Joan felt Raymond’s arms about her.

So frightened was she now that for an instant the human touch was a blessing.  She relaxed, panting and trembling.  In that moment she felt kisses upon her lips, her eyes, her throat!

She sprang away, dashing against the furniture and then, as suddenly as they had failed, the lights were blazing and in the revealment Joan faced the man across the room.

Her face was flaming, but his was as white as if death had marked it.

“You—­coward!” she flung out.

The words stung and hurt.

Raymond did not move bodily, but his eyes seemed to be coming nearer the girl.

“If you do not go at once,” Joan said, slowly, “I will call for help.”

“Oh! no, you won’t, and I am not going to-night.”

The beast in Raymond had never risen before, had never been suspected, never been trained:  it was the more dangerous because of that.

“What?” Joan stared at him aghast.

“I said that I am not going to-night.”

The awful feeling of familiarity again swept over Joan.  She felt that she must have lived through the scene:  had made a mistake that must not be made a second time.

“You have been drinking,” she said, and her voice shook.  She had hoped that she might save him the degradation of knowing that she understood.

“Well!  Suppose I have?  It has made me live.  Set me free.  I wonder if you have ever lived?”

“I am afraid not.”  Joan could not repress the sob that rose in her throat.

“We can live, I bet.”  Raymond gave his ugly laugh.  “That line in our hands gives us the right.”

For a moment Joan contemplated escape.  Any escape open to her.  The telephone, the door, even a call from the window in the heart of the storm.  Then the desire was gone and with it all personal fear.  She wanted again, in a vague way, to save this man who had once been her friend.  She felt that she must save him.

Somehow, she had wronged him.  She must find out just how, and then he might once more be as she had known him.

Presently it came to her.  She should have known that he could not understand the past.  He had pretended to, while they had played their foolish game, but when restraint was set aside he showed the deadly truth.  She had cheapened herself, cheapened all women—­she could not fly now, not until she had made him see the mistake.