CHAPTER XIII
THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
HE went quickly forward and pushed the curtain wide. Down in the angle of black cast by the outside stair, the figure of Blanche Rader was standing. Her body emerged from shadow into moonlight like a flower to the surface of water. Knees and the sweep of skirts were hidden. Shoulders and arms shone clear. The uncovered throat, and the face in its dark wreath of hair were like silver. She was leaning a little back, with limber waist, hands clasped behind her head, looking up. The mischief of middle night was in her face, subtle and scarcely smiling.
Grasping the window-frame in both hands, as if by such means he could keep the sight before him, the skeptic gazed. His heart, which had been full of her, might have prompted his eyes to summon the vision. It was but the flower of the time, the proper center of this pale flood of beauty, far too perfectly in tune with his thoughts to be real. His doubts must have been thick in his face, for sud-
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