The grave voice, with the undertone of pain running through it, ceased.  Kitty’s tears were flowing unchecked.

“Oh, Peter, Peter!” she cried sobbingly.  “Why aren’t you free?  You and Nan are just made for each other.”

He winced a little, as though she had laid her finger on a raw spot.

“Hush, Kitten,” he said quietly.  “Don’t cry so!  These things happen and we’ve got to face them.”

Kitty subsided into a chair and mopped her eyes.

“It’s wicked—­wicked that you should be tied up to a woman like Celia—­a woman who’s got no more soul than this chair!”—­banging the chair-arm viciously.

“And you mustn’t say things like that, either,” chided Peter, smiling at her very kindly.

As he spoke there came the sound of footsteps, and the voices of Barry and Penelope could be heard as they approached Kitty’s den, by way of the corridor.

“I owe you a bob, then,” Barry was saying in his easy, good-natured tones.  “You beat me fair and square that last game, Penny.”

Kitty sprang up, suddenly conscious of her tear-stained face.

“Oh, I can’t see them—–­not now!  Peter, stop them from coming here!”

A moment later Mallory came out of the room and met the approaching couple before they had reached the door.

“I was just coming to say good-bye to Kitty,” began Penelope.  “I’d no idea the time had flown so quickly.”

“Charm of my society,” murmured Barry.

Peter’s face was rather white and set, but he managed to reply in a voice that sounded fairly normal.

“Kitty’s very fagged and she’s going to rest for a few minutes before dressing for dinner.  She asked me to say good-bye to you for her, Penelope.”

“Then it falls to my lot to speed the parting guest,” said Barry cheerily.  “Peter, old son, can the car take you on anywhere after dropping Penny at the Mansions?”

Peter was conscious of a sudden panic.  He had just come from baring the rawness of his wound to Kitty, and, gently as her fingers had probed, even the kind hands of a friend may sometimes hurt excruciatingly.  He felt that at the moment he could not endure the companionship of any living soul.

“No, thanks,” he answered jerkily.  “I’ll walk.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE MIDDLE OF THE STAIRCASE

Mallow Court, the Seymours’ country home, lay not a mile from the village of St. Wennys.  A low, two-storied house of creeper-clad stone, it stood perched upon the cliffs, overlooking the wild sea which beats up against the Cornish coast.

The house itself had been built in a quaint, three-sided fashion, the central portion and the two wings which flanked it rectangularly serving to enclose a sunk lawn round which ran a wide, flagged path.  A low, grey stone wall, facing the sea, fenced the fourth side of the square, at one end of which a gate gave egress on to the sea-bitten grassy slope that led to the edge of the cliff itself.