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He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of

gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a

thrill of terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed

against the window of the conservatory, like a white

handkerchief, he had seen the face of James Vane watching him.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most

of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying,

and yet indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being

hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the

tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves

that were blown against the leaded panes seemed to him like his

own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. When he closed his eyes,

he saw again the sailor's face peering through the mist-stained

glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his

heart.