"Can you tell me the way to
Flood Street?" she asked. The woman looked at her fixedly. "No, that I can't," she said
listlessly. "I'm a stranger here." And then, with a passionate energy
which startled Agnes, "For God's sake, give me something, lady, to help
me to get home! I've walked all the way from Essex; it's taken me, oh! so long with the child, though we've had a lift here and a lift there,
and I haven't a penny left. I came to find my husband; but he's lost
himself--on purpose!" A week ago, Agnes Barlow would have shaken her head and passed on. She
had always held the theory, carefully inculcated by her careful parents,
that it is wrong to give money to beggars in the street. But perhaps the queer illusion that she had just experienced made her
remember Father Ferguson. In a flash she recalled a sermon of the old
priest's which had shocked and disturbed his prosperous congregation,
for in it the preacher had advanced the astounding theory that it is
better to give to nine impostors than to refuse the one just man; nay,
more, he had reminded his hearers of the old legend that Christ
sometimes comes, in the guise of a beggar, to the wealthy. She took five shillings out of her purse, and put them, not in the
woman's hand, but in that of the little child. "Thank you," said the woman dully. "May God bless you!" That was all,
but Agnes went on, vaguely comforted. *       *       *       *       *

And now at last, helped on her way by more than one good-natured
wayfarer, she reached the quiet, but shabby Chelsea street where
Ferrier lived. The fog had drifted towards the river, and in the
lamplight Agnes Barlow was not long in finding a large open door, above
which was inscribed: "The Thomas More Studios." Agnes walked timorously through into the square, empty, gas-lit hall,
and looked round her with distaste. The place struck her as very ugly
and forlorn, utterly lacking in what she had always taken to be the
amenities of flat life--an obsequious porter, a lift, electric light. How strange of Ferrier to have told her that he lived in a building that
was beautiful! Springing in bold and simple curves, rose a wrought-iron staircase,
filling up the centre of the narrow, towerlike building. Agnes knew that
Ferrier lived high up, somewhere near the top. She waited a moment at the foot of the staircase. She was gathering up
her strength, throwing behind her everything that had meant life,
happiness, and--what signified so very much to such a woman as
herself--personal repute. But, even so, Agnes did not falter in her purpose. She was still
possessed, driven onward, by a passion of jealous misery. But, though her spirit was willing, ay, and more than willing, for
revenge, her flesh was weak; and as she began slowly walking up the
staircase she started nervously at the grotesque shapes cast by her own
shadow, and at the muffled sounds of her own footfalls. Half-way up the high building the gas-jets burned low, and Agnes felt
aggrieved. What a mean, stupid economy on the part of the owners of this
strange, unnatural dwelling-place. How dreadful it would be if she were to meet any one she knew--any one
belonging to what she was already unconsciously teaching herself to call
her old, happy life! As if in cruel answer to her fear, a door opened,
and an old man, clad in a big shabby fur coat and broad-brimmed hat,
came out. Agnes's heart gave a bound in her bosom. Yes; this was what she had
somehow thought would happen. In the half-light she took the old man to
be an eccentric acquaintance of her father's. "Mr. Willis?" she whispered hoarsely. He looked at her, surprised, resentful. "My name's not Willis," he said gruffly, as he passed her on his way
down, and her heart became stilled. How could she have been so foolish
as to take that disagreeable old man for kindly-natured Mr. Willis? She was now very near the top. Only a storey and a half more, and she
would be there. Her steps were flagging, but a strange kind of peace had
fallen on her. In a few moments she would be safe, for ever, in
Ferrier's arms. How strange and unreal the notion seemed! And then--and then, as if fashioned by some potent incantation from the
vaporous fog outside, a tall, grey figure rose out of nothingness, and
stood, barring the way, on the steel floor of the landing above her. Agnes clutched the iron railing, too oppressed rather than too
frightened to speak. Out in the fog-laden street she had involuntarily
called out the other's name. "Teresa?" she had cried, "Teresa!" But this
time no word broke from her lips, for she feared that if she spoke the
other would answer. Teresa Maldo's love, the sisterly love of which Agnes had been so little
worthy, had broken down the gateless barrier which stretches its dense
length between the living and the dead. What she, the living woman, had
not known how to do for Teresa, the dead woman had come back to do for
her--for now Agnes seemed suddenly able to measure the depth of the gulf
into which she had been about to throw herself....

She stared with fearful, fascinated eyes at the immobile figure swathed
in grey, cere-like garments, and her gaze travelled stealthfully up to
the white, passionless face, drained of all expression save that of
watchful concern and understanding tenderness....

With a swift movement Agnes turned round. Clinging to the iron rail, she
stumbled down the stairway to the deserted hall, and with swift
terror-hastened steps rushed out into the street. Through the fog she plunged, not even sparing a moment to look back and
up to the dimly lighted window behind which poor Ferrier stood,--as a
softer, a truer-natured woman might have done. Violently she put all
thought of her lover from her, and as she hurried along with tightening
breath, the instinct of self-preservation alone possessing her, she
became more and more absorbed in measuring the fathomless depth of the
pit in which she had so nearly fallen. Her one wish now was to get home--to get home--to get home--before Frank
got back. But the fulfilment of that wish was denied her--for as Agnes Barlow
walked, crying softly as she went, in the misty darkness along the road
which led from Summerfield station to the gate of The Haven, there fell
on her ear the rhythmical tramp of well-shod feet. She shrank near to the hedge, in no mood to greet or to accept greeting
from a neighbour. But the walker was now close to her. He struck a
match. "Agnes?" It was Frank Barlow's voice--shamed, eager, questioning. "Is
that you? I thought--I hoped you would come home by this train." And as she gave no immediate answer, as he missed--God alone knew with
what relief--the prim, cold accents to which his wife had accustomed him
of late, he hurried forward and took her masterfully in his arms. "Oh! my darling," he whispered huskily, "I know I've been a beast--but I've
never left off loving you--and I can't stand your coldness, Agnes; it's
driving me to the devil!