He had heard of women aviators.  If Doris could be induced to accompany him into the air, instead of clinging sodden-like to the weight of Oswald’s woe, then would the world behold a triumph which would dwarf the ecstasy of the bird’s flight and rob the eagle of his kingly pride.  But Doris barely endured him as yet, and the thought was not one to be considered for a moment.  Yet what other course remained?  He was brooding deeply on the subject, in his hangar one evening—­(it was Thursday and Saturday was but two days off) when there came a light knock at the door.

This had never occurred before.  He had given strict orders, backed by his brother’s authority, that he was never to be intruded upon when in this place; and though he had sometimes encountered the prying eyes of the curious flashing from behind the trees encircling the hangar, his door had never been approached before, or his privacy encroached upon.  He started then, when this low but penetrating sound struck across the turmoil of his thoughts, and cast one look in the direction from which it came; but he did not rise, or even change his position on his workman’s stool.

Then it came again, still low but with an insistence which drew his brows together and made his hand fall from the wire he had been unconsciously holding through the mental debate which was absorbing him.  Still he made no response, and the knocking continued.  Should he ignore it entirely, start up his motor and render himself oblivious to all other sounds?  At every other point in his career he would have done this, but an unknown, and as yet unnamed, something had entered his heart during this fatal month, which made old ways impossible and oblivion a thing he dared not court too recklessly.  Should this be a summons from Doris!  Should (inconceivable idea, yet it seized upon him relentlessly and would not yield for the asking) should it be Doris herself!

Taking advantage of a momentary cessation of the ceaseless tap tap, he listened.  Silence was never profounder than in this forest on that windless night.  Earth and air seemed, to his strained ear, emptied of all sound.  The clatter of his own steady, unhastened heart-beat was all that broke upon the stillness.  He might be alone in the Universe for all token of life beyond these walls, or so he was saying to himself, when sharp, quick, sinister, the knocking recommenced, demanding admission, insisting upon attention, drawing him against his own will to his feet, and finally, though he made more than one stand against it, to the very door.

“Who’s there?” he asked, imperiously and with some show of anger.

No answer, but another quiet knock.

“Speak! or go from my door.  No one has the right to intrude here.  What is your name and business?”

Continued knocking—­nothing more.

With an outburst of wrath, which made the hangar ring, Orlando lifted his fist to answer this appeal in his own fierce fashion from his own side of the door, but the impulse paused at fulfilment, and he let his arm fall again in a rush of self-hatred which it would have pained his worst enemy, even little Doris, to witness.  As it reached his side, the knock came again.