It was the discordant voice of Mariana la Mursiana, crackling in strident protest.  My door was still open; I turned to look and saw her, hot-faced, tousle-haired, insufficiently wrapped, striving to ascend the gallery steps, but valiantly opposed by Madame Brossard, who stood in the way.

“But no, madame,” insisted Madame Brossard, excited but darkly determined.  “You cannot ascend.  There is nothing on the upper floor of this wing except the apartment of Professor Keredec.”

“Name of a dog!” shrilled the other.  “It is my husband’s apartment, I tell you.  Il y a une femme avec lui!”

“It is Madame Harman who is there,” said Keredec hoarsely in my ear.  “I came away and left them together.”

“Come,” I said, and, letting the others think what they would, sprang across the veranda, the professor beside me, and ran toward the two women who were beginning to struggle with more than their tongues.  I leaped by them and up the steps, but Keredec thrust himself between our hostess and her opponent, planting his great bulk on the lowest step.  Glancing hurriedly over my shoulder, I saw the Spanish woman strike him furiously upon the breast with both hands, but I knew she would never pass him.

I entered the salon of the “Grande Suite,” and closed the door quickly behind me.

Louise Harman was standing at the other end of the room; she wore the pretty dress of white and lilac and the white hat.  She looked cool and beautiful and good, and there were tears in her eyes.  To come into this quiet chamber and see her so, after the hot sunshine and tawdry scene below, was like leaving the shouting market-place for a shadowy chapel.

Her husband was kneeling beside her; he held one of her hands in both his, her other rested upon his head; and something in their attitudes made me know I had come in upon their leave-taking.  But from the face he lifted toward her all trace of his tragedy had passed:  the wonder and worship written there left no room for anything else.

“Mrs. Harman—­” I began.

“Yes?” she said.  “I am coming.”

“But I don’t want you to.  I’ve come for fear you would, and you—­you must not,” I stammered.  “You must wait.”

“Why?”

“It’s necessary,” I floundered.  “There is a scene—­”

“I know,” she said quietly.  “That must be, of course.”

Harman rose, and she took both his hands, holding them against her breast.

“My dear,” she said gently,—­“my dearest, you must stay.  Will you promise not to pass that door, even, until you have word from me again?”

“Yes,” he answered huskily, “if you’ll promise it shall come—­some day?”

“It shall, indeed.  Be sure of it.”

I had turned away, but I heard the ghost of his voice whispering “good-bye.”  Then she was beside me and opening the door.

I tried to stay her.

“Mrs. Harman,” I urged, “I earnestly beg you—­”