It was not difficult for Philip to see that the man's face was flushed and that he was laboring under some excitement.
He sat down, fumbled over some papers, rose quickly to his feet, looked at his watch, and began pacing back and forth across the room.
"So she's coming," he chuckled gleefully.
"She's coming, at last!" He looked at his watch again, straightened his cravat before a mirror, and rubbed his hands with a low laugh.

"The little beauty has surrendered," he went on, his face turning for an instant toward the coffin box.

"And it's time--past time." A light knock sounded at the door, and the chief sprang to open it.

A figure darted past him, and for but a breath a white, beautiful face was turned toward Philip and his prison--the face of the young woman whom he had seen but two hours before in Le Pas, the face that had pleaded with him that night, that had smiled upon him from the photograph, and that seemed to be masked now in a cold marble-like horror, as its glorious eyes, like pools of glowing fire, seemed searching him out through that narrow slit in the coffin box.
Hodges had advanced, with arms reaching out, and the woman turned with a low, sobbing breath breaking from her lips.
Another step and Hodges would have taken her in his arms, but she evaded him with a quick movement, and pointed to a chair at one side of the table.
"Sit down!" she cried softly.

"Sit down, and listen!" Was it fancy, or did her eyes turn with almost a prayer in them to the box against the wall?
Philip's heart was beating like a drum.