As the new development of the situation presented itself, the colour rose again to her cheeks.  The warmth of the conservatory, too, dispelled the chill that had penetrated her, and the familiar odours of the flowers contributed to restore the lost equilibrium of mind and body.

“Tell me what has happened,” she said again.

In the fewest possible words the Wanderer told her all that had occurred up to the moment of her coming, not omitting the detail of the locked door.

“And for what reason do you suppose that Keyork shut you in?” she asked.

“I do not know,” the Wanderer answered.  “I do not trust him, though I have known him so long.”

“It was mere selfishness,” said Unorna scornfully.  “I know him better than you do.  He was afraid you would disturb him again in the night.”

The Wanderer said nothing, wondering how any man could be so elaborately thoughtful of his own comfort.

“There is no help for it,” Unorna said, “we must watch together.”

“I see no other way,” the Wanderer answered indifferently.

He placed a chair for her to sit in, within sight of the sick man, and took one himself, wondering at the strange situation, and yet not caring to ask Unorna what had brought her back, so breathless and so pale, at such an hour.  He believed, not unnaturally, that her motive had been either anxiety for himself, or the irresistible longing to see him again, coupled with a distrust of his promise to return when she should send for him.  It seemed best to accept her appearance without question, lest an inquiry should lead to a fresh outburst, more unbearable now than before, since there seemed to be no way of leaving the house without exposing her to danger.  A nervous man like Israel Kafka might spring up at any moment and do something dangerous.

After they had taken their places the silence lasted some moments.

“You did not believe all I told you this evening?” said Unorna softly, with an interrogation in her voice.

“No,” the Wanderer answered quietly, “I did not.”

“I am glad of that—­I was mad when I spoke.”

CHAPTER XXIII

The Wanderer was not inclined to deny the statement which accorded well enough with his total disbelief of the story Unorna had told him.  But he did not answer her immediately, for he found himself in a very difficult position.  He would neither do anything in the least discourteous beyond admitting frankly that he had not believed her, when she taxed him with incredulity; nor would say anything which might serve her as a stepping-stone for returning to the original situation.  He was, perhaps, inclined to blame her somewhat less than at first, and her changed manner in speaking of Kafka somewhat encouraged his leniency.  A man will forgive, or at least condone, much harshness to others when he is thoroughly aware