of his precarious life, were absolutely forgotten.  His heart was calling all the time for an unknown boon.  He felt himself immeshed in a world of cobwebs, of weakness more potent than all his boasted strength.  Then he suddenly felt that the madness which he had begun to fear had really come.  It was the thing for which he longed yet dreaded most—­the faint click, the soft withdrawal of the panel, actually pushed back by a pair of white hands.  Rosamund herself was there.  Her eyes shone at him, mystically, wonderfully.  Her lips were parted in a delightful smile, a smile in which there was a spice of girlish mischief.  She turned for a moment to close the panel.  Then she came towards him with her finger upraised.

“I cannot sleep,” she said softly.  “Do you mind my coming for a few minutes?”

“Of course not,” he answered.  “Come and sit down.”

She curled up in his easy-chair.

“Just for a moment,” she murmured contentedly.  “Give me your hands, dear.  But how cold!  You must come nearer to the fire yourself.”

He sat on the arm of her chair, and she stroked his head with her hands.

“You were not afraid, then?” she asked, “when you saw me come through the panel?”

“I should never be afraid of any harm that you might bring me, dear,” he assured her.

“Because all that foolishness is really gone,” she continued eagerly.  “I know that whatever happened to poor Roger, it was not you who killed him.  Even if I heard his ghost calling again to-night, I should have no fear.  I can’t think why I ever wanted to hurt you, Everard.  I am sure that I always loved you.”

His arm went very softly around her.  She responded to his embrace without hesitation.  Her cheek rested upon his shoulder, he felt the warmth of her arm through her white, fur-lined dressing-gown.

“Why do you doubt any longer then,” he asked hoarsely, “that I am your husband?”

She sighed.

“Ah, but I know you are not,” she answered.  “Is it wrong of me to feel what I do for you, I wonder?  You are so like yet so unlike him.  He is dead.  He died in Africa.  Isn’t it strange that I should know it?  But I do!”

“But who am I then?” he whispered.

She looked at him pitifully.

“I do not know,” she confessed, “but you are kind to me, and when I feel you are near I am happy.  It is because I wanted to see you that I would not stay any longer at the nursing home.  That must mean that I am very fond of you.”

“You are not afraid,” he asked, “to be here alone with me?”

She put her other arm around his neck and drew his face down.

“I am not afraid,” she assured him.  “I am happy.  But, dear, what is the matter?  A moment ago you were cold.  Now your head is wet, your hands are burning.  Are you not happy because I am here?”

Her lips were seeking his.  His own touched them for a moment.  Then he kissed her on both cheeks.  She made a little grimace.