Elinor lay in her bed and listened to her father coming up the stairs.  She knew, before he reached the top, that Doyle would never let her be taken away.  He would kill her first.  He might kill Anthony Cardew.  She had a sickening sense of tragedy coming up the staircase, tragedy which took the form of her father’s familiar deliberate step.  Perhaps had she known of the chauffeur’s presence she might have chanced it, for every fiber of her tired body was crying for release.  But she saw only her father, alone in that house with Doyle and the smoldering Russian.

The key turned in the lock.

Anthony Cardew stood in the doorway, looking at her.  With her long hair in braids, she seemed young, almost girlish.  She looked like the little girl who had gone to dancing school in short white frocks and long black silk stockings, so many years ago.

“I’ve just learned about it, Elinor,” he said.  He moved to the bed and stood beside it, looking down, but he did not touch her.  “Are you able to be taken away from here?”

She knew that Doyle was outside, listening, and she hardened her heart for the part she had to play.  It was difficult; she was so infinitely moved by her father’s coming, and in the dim light he, too, looked like himself of years ago.

“Taken away?  Where?” she asked.

“You don’t want to stay here, do you?” he demanded bluntly.

“This is my home, father.”

“Good God, home!  Do you mean to tell me that, with all you must know about this man, you still want to stay with him?”

“I have no other home.”

“I am offering you one.”

Old Anthony was bewildered and angry.  Elinor put out a hand to touch him, but he drew back.

“After he has thrown you downstairs and injured you—­”

“How did you hear that?”

“The servant you had here came to see me to-night, Elinor.  She said that that blackguard outside there had struck you and you fell down the stairs.  If you tell me that’s the truth I’ll break every bone in his body.”

Sheer terror for Anthony made her breathless.

“But it isn’t true,” she said wildly.  “You mustn’t think that.  I fell.  I slipped and fell.”

“Then,” said Anthony, speaking slowly, “you are not a prisoner here?”

“A prisoner?  I’d be a prisoner anywhere, father.  I can’t walk.”

“That door was locked.”

She was fighting valiantly for him.

“I can’t walk, father.  I don’t require a locked door to keep me in.”

He was too confused and puzzled to notice the evasion.

“Do you mean to say that you won’t let me have you taken home?  You are still going to stay with this man?  You know what he is, don’t you?”

“I know what you think he is.”  She tried to smile, and he looked away from her quickly and stared around the room, seeing nothing, however.  Suddenly he turned and walked to the door; but he stopped there, his hand on the knob, and us face twitching.