"He's got nerves of steel. I am sure of it. Besides--"

She paused, and a strange conscious look came into her face--a look which Lady Sellingworth did not understand.

"Yes?" she said at last, as Beryl did not speak.

"Adela, I know you will not believe me. I know--you spoke once of my being very vain, but--but there are things a girl does know about a man, really there are! They may seem ridiculous, crazy to others, but--"

"What is it, Beryl?"

"I believe besides wanting my money he wants _me_. That's why I'm afraid. If it weren't for that I--perhaps I shouldn't have come to-night. Can you believe it?"

Lady Sellingworth looked at the girl with eyes which in spite of herself were hard. She knew they were hard, but she could not help it. Then she said:

"Yes, I can believe it."

"And that he may--he may persist in spite of all. He may refuse to give it up."

"Haven't you got a will?"

"Yes."

"Can't you use it?"

"Yes. But I'm afraid of him. I believe I've always been afraid of him.

No one else has ever been able to make me feel as I do about him. Once I read an article in a paper. It was about a horrible play--a woman who was drawn to a man irresistibly in spite of herself, to a hateful man, a murderer. And she went; she had to go. I remember I thought of _him_ then. It was a fascination of fear, Adela. There are such things."

"Do you mean to say that after what I have told you--"

"I want someone to get him away, to drive him away from me so that I shall never see him, so that he will never come near me again! I might go to Paris. But it would be no use. He would follow me there. I might go to America. But that would be just the same. He says so in this letter."

She held up the letter in her hand.

"Does he threaten you?"

"No--not exactly! No, he doesn't! It's worse than that. If he did I think I might find the courage. He's subtle, Adela. He's horribly subtle! Besides, he doesn't know--he can't know that you have told me what he is."

"He might guess it. He probably guessed it. He recognized me in the restaurant."

"Yes. He didn't want you to come to our table. But he never spoke of you afterwards. He didn't say a word, or show the slightest sign. But in this letter I feel that he suspects--that he is afraid something may happen through you, and that--"

"Perhaps he knows you came to see me last night."

"How could he?"

"It wouldn't be difficult for a man of that type."

"I walked home alone, and n.o.body--"

"That doesn't prove anything. He is subtle, as you say."

"I am sure from this letter that he guesses something has happened, that I may have been set against him, and that he doesn't mean to give me up, whatever happens. I feel that in his letter. And I want someone to drive him away from me. Oh, I wish I had never seen him! I wish I had never seen him!"

Again Lady Sellingworth heard the cry of youth, and this time it was piteous, almost despairing. She did not answer it in words. Indeed, instead of showing any pity, any strong instinct of protection, she turned away from Beryl.

The girl wondered why she did this, and for a moment thought that perhaps she was angry. The situation was difficult, horribly difficult.

Beryl had delicacy enough to understand that. Perhaps she ought not to have come to Adela again. Perhaps she was asking too much, more than any woman could bring herself to do, or to try to do. But she had no one else to go to, and she was really afraid, miserably afraid.

Lady Sellingworth stood quite still by the fire with her back to Beryl, and as the silence continued at last Beryl made up her mind that there was nothing to be hoped for from her and got up slowly.

"Adela," she said, trying to summon some pride, some courage, "I understand. You can't do anything more. I oughtn't to have come. It was monstrous, I suppose. But--it's like that in life. So few people will help. And those that do--well, they get asked for more. I'll--I'll manage somehow. It's all my own fault. I must try to--"

Then Lady Sellingworth turned round. Her white face was very grave, almost stern, like the face of one who was thinking with concentration.

"I'm ready to try to do what I can, Beryl," she said. "But there's only one way I can think of. And to take it I shall have to tell the whole truth."

"About me?"

"About you and myself."

"Oh--but you couldn't do that!"

"I believe that I ought to."

"But--but--to whom?"

"There's only one person I could possibly speak to, and he's the finest man I have ever met. He might do something. I'm thinking of Seymour Portman."

"Adela! But you couldn't tell _him_!"

"Why not?"

"Adela--he loves you. Everyone knows that."

"And that's just why I could tell him--him only."

Miss Van Tuyn looked down. Suddenly she felt that she had tears in her eyes.

"You have kept your cab, haven't you?" said Lady Sellingworth.

"Yes."

"Go home now. I will telephone to Seymour. I'll let you know later--to-morrow morning perhaps--what he thinks had better be done.

Now, good night, Beryl!"

She held out her hand. Beryl took it, but did not press it. Somehow she felt awed, and at a distance from this pale quiet woman.

Lady Sellingworth touched the bell, and Beryl Van Tuyn left the room.