"Jealousy? Of what? For whom?"
"For—me."
The monstrous implication sank slowly into my understanding; then brought me erect, gripping the edge of the table lest I forget restraint and move toward her.
"By what right?" I cried. "By what claim? Desire Michell, what has the Horror to do with you?"
The vehemence and heat of my cry struck a shock through the hushed room distinct as the shattering of crystal. There was no answer, no movement; no rebuke of my movement. I was alone. With that confession she had fled.
My cry had been louder than I knew. Presently I heard a door open. Steps sounded along the hall from the rooms on the opposite side of the house. Someone knocked hesitatingly.
"Are you all right, Mr. Locke?" Vere's voice came through the panels.
I crossed to the door and opened it. He stood at the threshold, an electric torch in his hand.
"We thought you called," he apologized. "I thought maybe you were sick, or wanted something; and no light showed around your door."
I found the wall switch and turned on the lamps. As on the last occasion, she had switched the lights off there, beyond my reach unless I broke my promise not to move about the room while she remained my guest.