stairs defined itself as light. Usually there was much light and the companionable racket of a busy household.
Randall's hands trembled while he arranged the levers and shut off the engine. Yet the radiance, at last, was somewhat reassuring.
He sprang out, and nearly running, stumbling a little, climbed the steps, crossed the verandah, and pushed the electric button. From far away the response echoed as through an empty house. No sound of hurrying feet followed it. Randall, after waiting for a moment, took out his latch-key and entered.
Because of his impatience he didn't stop to fumble for the switch. Instead he flung his hat haphazard through the darkness, felt his way across the hall, and climbed the stairs.
"Bella!" he called.
Immediately the relieving answer came:
"Here—in my dressing-room, John. Why are you so late?"
He leant weakly against the wall.
"I was detained. What's the matter?"
"Why don't you come in?" she asked.
He straightened and opened the door. The light, shining upon his face, showed it still scarred by anger and indecision. The relief of finding his wife at home and safe was not, then, wholly curative.
He closed the door behind him and stared at her, lying in a reading-chair, a book open on her knees,
