Inhisdespairhehadnotnoticedthatthependulumhungmotionless，orthatthehandsstoodatrestonthedial。Ifhehad，hemighthavewaitedlongenoughtohaveseenthecarefulopeningofthegreatclock”stalldoorandthesteppingforthofthelittleladywhohadplayedsodeftlyuponhissuperstition。
Hewaswanderingthecorridorslikeahelplesschild，whenagentlehandfellonhisarmandasoftvoicewhisperedinhisear：
“Youhaveastorytotell。Willyoutellittome？ItmaysaveMissPostlethwaite”slife。”
Didheunderstand？Wouldherespondifhedid；orwouldtheshockofherappealrestorehimtoasenseofthedangerattendingdisloyalty？Foramomentshedoubtedthewisdomofthisstartlingmeasure，thenshesawthathehadpassedthepointofsurpriseandthat，strangerasshewas，shehadbuttoleadthewayforhimtofollow，tellhisstory，anddie。
Therewasnolightinthedrawing-roomwhentheyentered。ButoldMr。Dunbardidnotseemtomindthat。Indeed，heseemedtohavelostallconsciousnessofpresentsurroundings；hewasevenobliviousofher。Thisbecamequiteevidentwhenthelamp，inflaringupagaininthehall，gaveamomentaryglimpse，ofhiscrouching，half-kneelingfigure。Inthepleadinggestureofhistrembling，outreachingarms，Violetbeheldanappeal，nottoherself，buttosomephantomofhisimagination；andwhenhespoke，ashepresentlydid，itwaswiththefreedomofonetowhomspeechislife”slastboon，andtheearofthelistenerquiteforgotteninthepassionofconfessionlongsuppressed。