There were moments when Adele Leamington had doubts as to her fitness for the profession she had entered; and never were those periods of doubt more poignant than when she tried to fix her mind upon the written directions of the scenario. She blamed Michael, and was immediately repentant. She blamed herself more freely; and at last she gave up the struggle, rolled up the manuscript book, and, putting an elastic band about it, thrust it under her pillow and prepared for bed. She had rid herself of skirt and blouse when the summons came.

“From Mr. Knebworth?” she said in surprise. “At this time of night?”

“Yes, miss. He’s going to make a big alteration tomorrow and he wants to see you at once. He has sent his car. Miss Mendoza is coming into the cast.”

“Oh!” she said faintly.

Then she had been a failure, after all, and had lived in a fool’s paradise for these past days.

“I’ll come at once,” she said.

Her fingers trembled as she fastened her dress, and she hated herself for such a display of weakness. Perhaps Stella was not coming into the cast in her old part; perhaps some new character had been written in; perhaps it was not for “Roselle” at all that she had been re-engaged. These and other speculations rioted in her mind; and she was in the passage and the door was opened when she remembered that Jack Knebworth would want the manuscript. She ran upstairs, and, by an aberration of memory, forgot entirely where the script had been left. At last, in despair, she went down to the landlady.

“I have left some manuscripts which are rather important. Would you bring them up to Mr. Knebworth’s house when you find them? They’re in a little brown jacket⁠—” She described the appearance as well as she could.

It was Stella Mendoza’s car; she recognized the machine with a pang. So Jack and she were reconciled!

In a minute she was inside the machine, the door closed behind her, and was sitting by the driver, who did not speak.

“Is Mr. Brixan with Mr. Knebworth?” she asked.

He did not reply. She thought he had not heard her, until he turned with a wide sweep and set the car going in the opposite direction.

“This is not the way to Mr. Knebworth’s,” she said in alarm. “Don’t you know the way?”

Still he made no reply. The machine gathered speed, passed down a long, dark street, and turned into a country lane.

“Stop the car at once!” she said, terrified, and put her hand on the handle of the door.

Instantly her arm was gripped.

“My dear, you’re going to injure your pretty little body, and probably spoil your beautiful face, if you attempt to get out while the car is in motion,” he said.

“Sir Gregory!” she gasped.

“Now don’t make a fuss,” said Gregory. There was no mistaking the elation in his voice. “You’re coming up to have a little bit of supper with me. I’ve asked you often enough, and now you’re going willy-nilly! Stella’s there, so there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She held down her fears with an effort.

“Sir Gregory, you will take me back at once to my lodgings,” she said. “This is disgraceful of you!”

He chuckled loudly.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you; nobody’s going to hurt you, and you’ll be delivered safe and sound; but you’re going to have supper with me first, little darling. And if you make a fuss, I’m going to turn the car into the first tree I see and smash us all up!”

He was drunk⁠—drunk not only with wine, but with the lust of power. Gregory had achieved his object, and would stop at nothing now.

Was Stella there? She did not believe him. And yet it might be true. She grasped at the straw which Stella’s presence offered.

“Here we are,” grunted Gregory, as he stopped the car before the Towers door and slipped out on to the gravel.

Before she realized what he was doing, he had lifted her in his arms, though she struggled desperately.

“If you scream I’ll kiss you,” growled his voice in her ear, and she lay passive.

The door opened instantly. She looked down at the servant standing stolidly in the hall, as Gregory carried her up the wide stairway, and wondered what help might come from him. Presently Penne set her down on her feet and, opening a door, thrust her in.

“Here’s your friend, Stella,” he said. “Say the good word for me! Knock some sense into her head if you can. I’ll come back in ten minutes, and we’ll have the grandest little wedding supper that any bridegroom ever had.”

The door was banged and locked upon her before she realized there was another woman in the room. It was Stella. Her heart rose at the sight of the girl’s white face.

“Oh, Miss Mendoza,” she said breathlessly, “thank God you’re here!”