Rosamund did not know how long she sat in the garden after she had heard the footfall in the Dark Entry.  Perhaps five minutes, perhaps many more had slipped by before she was aware of feeling cold.  A chill had gone through her mind when she heard the footfall; now her body was chilled.  She shivered and got up.  She must go into the house.

It was now very dark.  The path was a pale grayish blur at her feet.  On her left the shrubs which concealed the house from her showed as a heavy morose blackness against the softer and more mysterious blackness of the night.  The dampness which rose in the garden was like the dreary whispering of sad earth voices.

She shivered again.

Then she heard a faltering step on the path beyond the shrubs.  It was certainly Dion’s step.  At last they had come back!

With a movement of her shoulders she tried to throw off her depression, as if it were something heavy resting upon her, something which a physical effort could get rid of.  Then she called out in a brisk and cheerful voice: 

“Dion, I’m here.  How late you are!  What have you shot?”

It was too late now for the nursery tea, but they had come back and all was well.

“Dion!”

The step had stopped on the path and no voice answered her.  Nevertheless she was certain that it was Dion who had come into the garden.  Perhaps Robin was with him, perhaps they were going to give her a surprise.  She waited for an instant.  Something within her was hesitating.  She conquered it, not without an effort, and went round the angle of the path.  Beyond the shrubs, but not far from them, a man was standing.  It was Dion.  He was alone.  It was so dark that Rosamund could not see him clearly, but she noticed at once that the outline of his figure looked strange.  His body seemed to be all awry as if he were standing in an unnatural position.  She stopped and stared at this body.

“Is anything wrong, Dion?” she asked.  “What’s the matter?  Why do you stand like that?”

After her last quick question she heard a long-drawn quivering breath.

“Where’s Robin?” she said sharply.

He did not answer.  She meant to go up to him; but she did not move.

“Why are you so late?  Where’s Robin?” he repeated.

“Rosamund—­”

“Don’t move!  Stand there, and tell me what it is.”

“Haven’t I—­always tried to make you happy?”

The words came from the body before her, but she did not know the voice.  It was Dion’s voice, of course.  It must be that.  But she had never heard it before.

“Don’t come nearer to me.  What have you done?”

“Robin—­I have—­I have—­Robin—­my gun——­”

The voice failed in the darkness.  Rosamund shut her eyes.  She had seen an angry hand tear down a branch of wild olive.  Suddenly she knew.  It seemed to her that ever since that day long ago in Elis some part of her had always prophetically known that Dion was fated to bring terror and ruin into her life.  This was not true, but now she felt it to be true.