Stretching and yawning alternately he eyed the mass of papers with increasing repugnance; but later a cold sponge across his eyes revived him sufficiently to sit down and inspect the first document.  Then he opened the ink-well, picked up a pen, and began.

For half an hour he sat there, now refreshed and keenly absorbed in his work.  Once the stairs outside creaked, and he raised his head, listening absently, then returned to the task before him with a sigh.

All his windows were open; the warm night air was saturated with the odour of Bermuda lilies.  Once or twice he laid down his pen and stared out into the darkness as a subtler perfume grew on the breeze—­the far fragrance of china-berry in bloom; Calypso’s breath!

Then, in the silence, the heavy throb of his heart unnerved his hand, rendering his pen unsteady as he signed each rendered bill:  “O.K. for $——­,” and affixed his signature, “John Garret Hamil, Architect.”

The aroma of the lilies hung heavy in the room, penetrating as the scent of Malcourt’s spiced Chinese gums afire and bubbling.  And he thought again of Malcourt’s nineteen little josses which he lugged about with him everywhere from some occult whim, and in whose gilt-bronze laps he sometimes burned cigarettes, sometimes a tiny globule of aromatic gum, pretending it propitiated the malice-brooding gods.

And, thinking of Malcourt, suddenly he remembered the door-key.  Malcourt could not get in without it.  And the doors were barred and chained.

Slipping the key into his pocket he opened his door, and, treading quietly through the silent house, descended to the great hall.  With infinite precaution he fumbled for the chains; they were dangling loose.  Somebody, too, had drawn the heavy bars, but the door itself was locked.

So he cautiously unlocked it, and holding the key in his hand, let himself out on the terrace.

And at the same moment a shadowy figure turned in the starlight to confront him.

“Shiela!”

“Is that you, Mr. Hamil?”

“Yes.  What on earth are you—­”

“Hush!  What are you doing down here?”

“Louis Malcourt is out.  I forgot to leave a key for him under the yellow rose—­”

“Under the rose—­and yellow at that!  The mysteries of the Rosicrucians pale into insignificance beside the lurid rites of Mr. Malcourt and Mr. Hamil—­under the yellow rose!  Proceed, my fearsome adept, and perform the occult deed!”

Hamil descended the terrace to the new garden, hung the key to a brier under the fragrant mass of flowers, and glanced up at Shiela, who, arms on the balustrade above him, was looking down at the proceedings.

“Is the dread deed done?” she whispered.

“If you don’t believe it come down and see.”

“I?  Come down?  At two in the morning?”

“It’s half-past two.”