Suddenly the sound of a falling object came to his ears, as if a book had dropped from a table, or a chair had overturned.  It was from the end of the hall—­almost opposite his room.  At his own door he stopped again and listened.  This time he could hear voices, a low and unintelligible murmur.  It was quite easy for him to locate the sound.  He moved across to the other door, and hesitated.  He had already disobeyed Josephine’s injunction to remain with her father.  Should he take a further advantage by obeying John Adare’s command to bring his wife and daughter?  A strange and subdued excitement was stirring him.  Since the appearance of the threatening face at his window—­the knowledge that in another moment he would have invited death from out of the night—­he felt that he was no longer utterly in the hands of the woman he loved.  And something stronger than he could resist impelled him to announce his presence at the door.

At his knock there fell a sudden silence beyond the thick panels.  For several moments he waited, holding his breath.  Then he heard quick steps, the door swung slowly open, and he faced Josephine.

“Pardon me for interrupting you,” he apologized in a low voice.  “Your father sent me for you and your mother.  He says that you must come and wake the baby.”

Slowly Josephine held out a hand to him.  He was startled by its coldness.

“Come in, Philip,” she said.  “I want you to meet my mother.”

He entered into the warm glow of the room.  Slightly bending over a table stood the slender form of a woman, her back toward him.  Without seeing her face he was astonished at her striking resemblance to Josephine—­the same slim, beautiful figure, the same thick, glowing coils of hair crowning her head—­but darker.  She turned toward him, and he was still more amazed by this resemblance.  And yet it was a resemblance which he could not at first define.  Her eyes were very dark instead of blue.  Her heavy hair, drawn smoothly back from her forehead, was of the deep brown that is almost black in the shadow.  Slimness had given her the appearance of Josephine’s height.  She was still beautiful.  Hair, eyes, and figure gave her at first glance an appearance of almost girlish loveliness.

And then, all at once, the difference swept upon him.  She was like Josephine as he had seen her in that hour of calm despair when she had come to him at the canoe.  Home-coming had not brought her happiness.  Her face was colourless, her cheeks slightly hollowed, in her eyes he saw now the lustreless glow which frequently comes with a fatal sickness.  He was smiling and holding out his hand to her even as he saw these things, and at his side he heard Josephine say: 

“Mother, this is Philip.”

The hand she gave him was small and cold.  Her voice, too, was wonderfully like Josephine’s.

“I was not expecting to see you to-night, Philip,” she said.  “I am almost ill.  But I am glad now that you joined us.  Did I hear you say that my husband sent you?”