The man went out and closed the door; but while Sybil was considering who her visitor might be, it was flung open, and Ralph Hinchley stood before her.
She stepped forward with an angry gesture.
"Why have you come here?" she asked. "I do not desire your visits, Mr. Hinchley."
"Nor is it at all probable that I shall ever pay you another, madam; but this one you will have the patience to endure."
"Mr. Laurence will soon be here," she said, haughtily; "possibly you would prefer not to meet him."
"I desire to see him—it is part of my business here; but first, I wish to introduce an old acquaintance of yours."
He went to the door, flung it open, and Sybil beheld a form which she had believed long since cold in the grave, the old cruel light in the eyes, the mocking smile upon the lips—her husband.
She started back with a cry of dreary pain.
"Don't be alarmed, Sybil," he said, quietly advancing toward her. "Of course you are glad to see your 'own, own Philip.' That used to be the term, I think."