way like a torchlight cleaving a path through a blind alley.

"What's the matter?"

As he hurled this question through the panel, he reflected that, being a woman, she would probably reply, "Nothing." But there was no response. Kenwick persisted. "Can I do anything for you?" And then a voice that was little more than a whisper came to him.

"Who are you?"

Conscious that the name would mean nothing to her, he gave it with a touch of irritation. She must know that he couldn't explain his invasion of her house through that inscrutably closed door. He had never thought of the place as belonging to a woman. Nothing that he had seen in it so far bespoke a woman's presence. The embarrassment that he had felt during the first hours of his imprisonment ebbed back and for the moment robbed him of further speech.

"Please go away." The voice from the other side of the door was entreating. It was a cultured, beautifully modulated voice struggling against heavy odds for composure. Kenwick had the feeling that it was a voice that lent itself easily to disguise.

"I can't go away until I have told you about myself," he said firmly. "I must tell you how I happen to be here, an uninvited guest in your house." He gave her the story briefly and was horribly conscious that it lacked conviction. In his own ears it sounded like the still-born narrative of a debauchee. Having stumbled to the end he waited for her comment. It came after a long pause.

"I'm sorry you're hurt. I hope you'll feel better to-morrow." To-morrow! Did she expect him to prolong his visit indefinitely? The casual courtesy of her tone was more disconcerting than indignation or resentment or any other form of reply could have been. But he resolved savagely not to leave that door until he had obtained some sort of information.

"When I met with the accident I was driving out to the Raeburn house; Charles Raeburn. Do you know where he lives?"

"No."

"Well, tell me about this place, then, please. Whose is it?"

"I don't know."

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