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Ilingsworth stared at her, fascinated. He felt his vision clear. He realised now that she was right; that for weeks he had suffered the curse of, the desperate; that he had been robbed of the one thing that the desperate man needs—deliberation. He had possessed purpose, force—the purpose to force the issue at the point of a murderous revolver, but when it came to the execution.... And what about the result? To what end would it all tend? Until now he had never thought of that.

"I believe you're right, after all," he said somewhat sheepishly, and started toward the door. "May I ask you for your promise not to expose me," he entreated, "for the sake of Elinor?"

Leslie bowed her head. Now that it was all over, she was on the verge of hysteria. "Mr. Ilingsworth, I won't say a word about it," she promised, "unless the time comes when I think it necessary.... This panic seems to have made us all half crazy—even my father seems so most of the time. Good-bye!"

Somewhat incoherently Ilingsworth murmured some grateful words, and immediately after Leslie watched him silently and carefully unlock the door and open it. The hall was deserted save for the presence of a footman near the front entrance, and to him this long interview behind closed doors was as nothing. These were parlous times in the house of Wilkinson; strange goings and comings were the rule, not the exception. Nothing was unusual. And so Ilingsworth passed out in safety, carrying his purpose with him to the free air outside.