“And you mean to stop on here, in close attendance on a man who has attempted your life?” I cried, really alarmed for her safety.

“I am not sure about that,” she answered.  “I must take time to think.  My presence at Nathaniel’s was necessary to my Plan.  The Plan fails for the present.  I have now to look round and reconsider my position.”

“But you are not safe here now,” I urged, growing warm.  “If Sebastian really wishes to get rid of you, and is as unscrupulous as you suppose, with his gigantic brain he can soon compass his end.  What he plans he executes.  You ought not to remain within the Professor’s reach one hour longer.”

“I have thought of that, too,” she replied, with an almost unearthly calm.  “But there are difficulties either way.  At any rate, I am glad he did not succeed this time.  For, to have killed me now, would have frustrated my Plan”—­she clasped her hands—­“my Plan is ten thousand times dearer than life to me!”

“Dear lady!” I cried, drawing a deep breath, “I implore you in this strait, listen to what I urge.  Why fight your battle alone?  Why refuse assistance?  I have admired you so long—­I am so eager to help you.  If only you will allow me to call you—­”

Her eyes brightened and softened.  Her whole bosom heaved.  I felt in a flash she was not wholly indifferent to me.  Strange tremors in the air seemed to play about us.  But she waved me aside once more.  “Don’t press me,” she said, in a very low voice.  “Let me go my own way.  It is hard enough already, this task I have undertaken, without your making it harder. . . .  Dear friend, dear friend, you don’t quite understand.  There are two men at Nathaniel’s whom I desire to escape—­because they both alike stand in the way of my Purpose.”  She took my hands in hers.  “Each in a different way,” she murmured once more.  “But each I must avoid.  One is Sebastian.  The other—­” she let my hand drop again, and broke off suddenly.  “Dear Hubert,” she cried, with a catch, “I cannot help it:  forgive me!”

It was the first time she had ever called me by my Christian name.  The mere sound of the word made me unspeakably happy.

Yet she waved me away.  “Must I go?” I asked, quivering.

“Yes, yes:  you must go.  I cannot stand it.  I must think this thing out, undisturbed.  It is a very great crisis.”

That afternoon and evening, by some unhappy chance, I was fully engaged in work at the hospital.  Late at night a letter arrived for me.  I glanced at it in dismay.  It bore the Basingstoke postmark.  But, to my alarm and surprise, it was in Hilda’s hand.  What could this change portend?  I opened it, all tremulous.

“Dear Hubert,—­” I gave a sigh of relief.  It was no longer “Dear Dr. Cumberledge” now, but “Hubert.”  That was something gained, at any rate.  I read on with a beating heart.  What had Hilda to say to me?