She was looking out to the two trees where once her hammock had swung--to the rustic chair, now falling apart from age, from which Bernal had faced her that last evening.

Then with a start she was back in the present.

Nancy of the old days must be shut fat in the old house.

There she might wander and wonder endlessly among the echoes and the half-seen faces, but never could she come forth; over the threshold there could pass only the wife of Allan Linford.
Quick upon this realisation came a sharp fear of the man beside her--a fear born of his hand's hold upon hers when they had met.

She shrank under the memory of it, with a sudden instinct of the hunted.