Nearer and nearer to midnight crept the gilded, flamboyant hour-hand; the gaunter minute-hand was slowly but inexorably overtaking it.  Nearer, nearer, they drew together; then came the ominous click; a moment’s suspense; the high-keyed gong quivered twelve times under the impact of the tiny steel hammer.

And he never would hear her voice again.  And he dropped to his knees asking mercy on them both.

In his dulled ears still lingered the treble ringing echo of the bell—­lingered, reiterated, repeated incessantly, until he thought he was going mad.  Then, of a sudden, he realised that the telephone was ringing; and he reeled from his knees to his feet, and crept forward into the shadows, feeling his way like a blind man.

“Louis?”

But he could not utter a sound.

“Louis, is it you?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“What is the matter?  Are you ill?  Your voice is so strange. Are you?”

“No!—­Is it you, Valerie?”

“You know it is!”

“Where—­are you?”

“In my room—­where I have been all day.”

“You have been—­there!  You have been here—­in the city—­all this time—­”

“I came in on the morning train.  I wanted to be sure.  There have been such things as railroad delays you know.”

“Why—­why didn’t you let me know—­”

“Louis!  You will please to recollect that I had until midnight ...  I—­was busy.  Besides, midnight has just sounded—­and here I am.”

He waited.

“I received your letter.”  Her voice had the sweet, familiar, rising inflection which seemed to invite an answer.

“Yes,” he muttered, “I wrote to you.”

“Do you wish to know what I thought of your letter?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

“I will tell you some other time; not now....  Have you been perfectly well, Louis?  But I heard all about you, every day,—­through Rita.  Do you know I am quite mad to see that picture you painted of her,—­the new one—­’Womanhood.’  She says it is a great picture—­really great.  Is it?”

He did not answer.

“Louis!”

“Yes.”

“I would like to see that picture.”

“Valerie?”

“Yes?”—­sweetly impatient.

“Are we to see each other again?”

She said calmly:  “I didn’t ask to see you, Louis:  I asked to see a picture which you recently painted, called ‘Womanhood.’”

He remained silent and presently she called him again by name:  “You say that you are well—­or rather Rita said so two days ago—­and I’m wondering whether in the interim you’ve fallen ill?  Two days without news from you is rather disquieting.  Please tell me at once exactly how you are?”

He succeeded in forcing something resembling a laugh:  “I am all right,” he said.

“I don’t see how you could be—­after the letter you wrote me.  How much of it did you mean?”