little of her own acute distress was shared by a true friend.
The face of George Hierons was that of a highly sensitive man who was suffering acutely. His visitor was struck by a tragic change in his appearance. Eyes and cheeks had deep hollows, their lines a look of age that mere years did not warrant; and underlying a strong and beautiful face was a torment of pain, stifled and repressed, that Helen could not bear to see.
She had the courage to begin with a conventional remark. But Hierons at once made clear that there was no need to withhold anything. He took her hands gently in his own.
"You have done a wise thing in coming to see me," he said without a word of preface. "Tell me just how much you know."
Helen hesitated. John had revealed much as to the workings of the Society, but he had been careful not to disclose the names of its members. She had strong reason to suspect that Hierons belonged to it, but until she was quite sure it would be the height of folly to lay her cards on the table.
"You may tell me all," he said, reading her thoughts without difficulty. "I was with the Council so recently as half past eleven this morning—if it is any satisfaction to you to know that."
"That is to say you belong?"
"Yes," he said, again taking her hands.
She could not hide the look of frank horror that
