She began to think of disobeying Durade.  Something would happen to him sooner or later, and in that event what was she to do?  Why not try and escape?  Whatever the evil of Benton, it was possible that she might not fall into bad hands.  Anything would be better than her confinement here, with no sight of the sun, with no one to speak to, with nothing to do but brood and fight her fancies and doubts, and listen to that ceaseless, soft, mysterious din.  Allie believed she could not long bear that.  Now and then occurred a change in her mind which frightened her.  It was a regurgitation of the old tide of somber horror which had submerged her after the murder of her mother.

She was working herself into a frenzied state when unexpectedly Durade came to her room.  At first glance she hardly knew him.  He looked thin and worn; his eyes glittered; his hands shook; and the strange radiance that emanated from him when his passion for gambling had been crowned with success shone stronger than Allie had ever seen it.

“Allie, the time’s come,” he said.  He seemed to be looking back into the past.

“What time?” she asked.

“For you to do for me—­as your mother did before you.”

“I—­I—­don’t understand.”

“Make yourself beautiful!”

“Beautiful! ...  How?” Allie had an inkling of what it meant, but all her mind repudiated the horrible suggestion.

Durade laughed.  He had indeed changed.  He seemed a weaker man.  Benton was acting powerfully upon him.

“How little vanity you have! ...  Allie, you are beautiful now or at any time.  You’ll be so when you’re old or dead....  I mean for you to show more of your beauty....  Let down your hair.  Braid it a little.  Put on a white waist.  Open it at the neck....  You remember how your mother did.”

Allie stared at him, slowly paling.  She could not speak.  It had come—­the crisis that she had dreaded.

“You look like a ghost!” Durade exclaimed.  “Like she did, years ago when I told her—­this same thing—­the first time!”

“You mean to use me—­as you used her?” faltered Allie.

“Yes.  But you needn’t be afraid or sick.  I’ll always be with you.”

“What am I to do?”

“Be ready in the afternoon when I call you.”

“I know now why my mother hated you,” burst out Allie.  For the first time she too hated him, and felt the stronger for it.

“She’ll pay for that hate, and so will you,” he replied, passionately.  His physical action seemed involuntary—­a shrinking as if from a stab.  Then followed swift violence.  He struck Allie across the mouth with his open hand, a hard blow, almost knocking her down.

“Don’t let me hear that from you again!” he continued, furiously.

With that he left the room, closing but not barring the door.

Allie put her hand to her lips.  They were bleeding.  She tasted her own warm and salty blood.  Then there was born in her something that burned and throbbed and swelled and drove out all her vacillations.  That blow was what she had needed.  There was a certainty now as to her peril, just as there was imperious call for her to help herself and save herself.