"That's true; I hate to think of it. You know what I owe to him and Bertram."

"He's old," continued Mrs. Keith. "It would be a great thing if he could be allowed to spend his last years in quietness, but I fear that's impossible, although, perhaps, to some extent, it lies in your hands." Then she looked steadily at Blake. "Now you have come back, what do you mean to do?"

"Whatever is needful; I'm for the defence. The Colonel's position can't be stormed while I'm on guard; and this time there'll be no retreat."

"Don't add that, Dick; it hurts me. I'm not so hard as I sometimes pretend. I never doubted your staunchness, but I wonder whether you quite realize what the defence may cost you. Have you thought about your future?"

"You ought to know that the Blakes never think of the future. We're a happy-go-lucky, irresponsible lot."

"But suppose you wished to marry?"

He smiled at her. "It's a difficulty that has already been pointed out. If I ever marry, the girl I choose will believe in me in spite of appearances. In fact, she'll have to; I've no medals and decorations to bring her."

"You have much that's worth more!" Mrs. Keith exclaimed, moved by his steadfastness. "Still, it's a severe test for any girl." Then she laid her hand gently on his arm. "In the end, you won't regret the course you mean to take. I have lived a long while and have lost many pleasant illusions, but I believe that loyalty like yours has its reward. I loved you for your mother's sake when you were a boy; afterwards when things looked blackest I kept my faith in you, and now I'm proud I did so."

Blake looked confused. "Confidence like yours is an embarrassing gift. It makes one feel one must live up to it, and that isn't easy."

Mrs. Keith regarded him affectionately. "It's yours, Dick; given without reserve. But I think there's nothing more to be said, and no doubt you're anxious to get away. Besides, the Colonel will be expecting you."

"He used to be seriously annoyed if he had to wait for dinner, and I've been here some time," Blake answered, laughing, and went out to take leave of Mrs. Foster.



CHAPTER XXIX

BLAKE HOLDS HIS GROUND

Dinner was finished at Sandymere, Miss Challoner had gone out, and, in accordance with ancient custom, the cloth had been removed from the great mahogany table. Its glistening surface was only broken by a decanter, two choice wine-glasses, and a tall silver candlestick. There were lamps in other parts of the room, but Challoner liked candles. Lighting a cigar, Blake looked about while he braced himself for the ordeal that must be faced.

He knew the big room well, but its air of solemnity, with which the heavy Georgian furniture was in keeping, impressed him. The ceiling had been decorated by a French artist of the eighteenth century and the faded delicacy of the design, bearing as it did the stamp of its period, helped to give the place a look of age. Challoner could trace his descent much further than his house and furniture suggested, but the family had first come to the front in the East India Company's wars, and while maintaining its position afterwards had escaped the modernizing influence of the country's awakening in the early Victorian days. It seemed to Blake, fresh from the new and democratic West, that his uncle, shrewd and well-informed man as he was, was very much of the type of Wellington's officers. For all that he pitied him. Challoner looked old and worn, and there were wrinkles that hinted at anxious thought round his eyes. His life was lonely, and his unmarried sister, who spent much of her time in visits, was the only relative who shared his home. Now that age was limiting his activities and interests, he had one great source of gratification; the career of the soldier son who was worthily following in his steps. His nephew determined that this should be saved for him, as he remembered the benefits he had received at his hands.

By and by Challoner filled the glasses. "Dick," he said, "I'm very glad to see you home. I should like to think you have come to stay."

"Thank you, sir. I'll stay as long as you need me."

"I feel I need you altogether. It's now doubtful whether Bertram will leave India after all. His regiment has been ordered into the hills where there's serious trouble brewing, and he has asked permission to remain. Even if he comes home, he will have many duties, and I have nobody left."

Blake did not answer immediately, and his uncle studied him. Dick had grown thin, but he looked very hard, and the evening dress set off his fine, muscular figure. His face was still somewhat pinched, but its deep bronze and the steadiness of his eyes and firmness of his lips gave him a very soldierly look and a certain air of distinction. There was no doubt that he was true to the Challoner type.

Then Blake said slowly, "I must go back sooner or later, sir; there is an engagement I am bound to keep. Besides, your pressing me to stay raises a question. The last time we met you acquiesced in my decision that I had better keep out of the country, and I see no reason for changing it."

"The question must certainly be raised; that is why I sent for you. You can understand my anxiety to learn what truth there is in the stories I have heard."

"It might be better if you told me all about it."

"Very well; the task is painful, but it can't be shirked. We'll take the woman's tale first." Challoner carefully outlined Mrs. Chudleigh's theory of what had happened during the night attack and Blake listened quietly.

"Now," he said, "you might give me Clarke's account."

Challoner did so and concluded: "Both these people have an obvious end to serve, and I daresay they're capable of misrepresenting things to suit it. I'll confess I found the thought comforting; but I want the truth, Dick. I must do what's right."

"In the first place, Clarke, who once approached me about the matter, will never trouble either of us again. I helped to bury him up in the wilds."

"Dead!" exclaimed Challoner.

"Frozen. In fact, it was not his fault we escaped his fate. He set a trap for us, intending that we should starve."

"But why?"

"His motive was obvious," Blake rejoined. "There was a man with us whose farm and stock would, in the event of his death, fall into Clarke's hands, and it's clear that I was a serious obstacle in his way. Can't you see that he couldn't use his absurd story to bleed you unless I supported it?"

Challoner felt the force of this. He was a shrewd man, but just then he was too disturbed to reason closely and failed to perceive that his nephew's refusal to confirm the story did not necessarily disprove it. That Clarke had thought it worth while to attempt his life bulked most largely in his uncle's eye.

"He urged me to take some shares in a petroleum syndicate," he remarked.

"Then I believe you missed a good thing, sir." Blake seized upon the change of topic. "The shares would probably have paid you well."

"I thought he proposed it to make the thing look better; in fact, to give me something to salve my conscience with."

"Anyway, he found the oil and put us on the track of it, though I don't suppose he had any wish to do the latter. We expect to make a good deal out of the discovery."

"It looks like justice," said Challoner. "But we are getting away from the point. I'd better tell you that after my talk with the man I felt he might be dangerous and that I must send for you."

"Why didn't you send for Bertram?"

Challoner hesitated. "When I cabled out instructions to find you, there was no word of his leaving India; then you must see how hard it would have been to hint at my suspicions. This would have opened a breach between us that could never be closed."

"Yes," said Blake, leaning forward on the table and speaking earnestly, "your reluctance was very natural. I'm afraid of presuming too far, but I can't understand how you could believe this thing of your only son."

"It lies between my son and my nephew, Dick."

There was emotion in the Colonel's voice. "I had a great liking for your father and I brought you up. Then I took a keen pride in you; there were respects in which I found you truer to our type than Bertram."

"You heaped favours on me," Blake replied. "That I bitterly disappointed you has been my deepest shame; in fact, it's the one thing that counts. For the rest, I can't regret the friends who turned their backs on me, and poverty never troubled the Blakes."

"But the taint—the stain upon your name!"

"I have the advantage of bearing it alone, and, to tell the truth, it doesn't bother me much. That a man should go straight in the present is all they ask in Canada, and homeless adventurers with no possessions, which is the kind of comrades I've generally met, are charitable. As a rule, it wouldn't become them to be fastidious. Anyhow, sir, you must see the absurdity of believing that Bertram could have failed in his duty in the way these tales suggest."

"I once felt that strongly; the trouble is that the objection applies with equal force to you. Your mother had a resolute character; your father was a daring man."

Blake coloured as he answered: "I'm glad you mentioned this; my parents can't be held responsible for my faults. You must know that rather surprising variations are apt to appear in a family strain. It's possible I'm what gardeners call a sport; a throwback to some inferior type. There may have been a weakling even among the Challoners."

"I have dreaded that there was one in the present generation," the Colonel answered with stern gravity. "But we get no farther. Do you deny the stories these people have told me?"

Blake felt that his task was hard. He had to convict himself and must do so logically, since Challoner was by no means a fool. As he nerved himself to the effort he was conscious of a rather grim amusement.

"I think it would be better if I tried to show you how the attack was made. Is the old set of Indian chessmen still in the drawer?"

"I believe so. It must be twenty years since they were taken out. It's strange you should remember them."

A stirring of half-painful emotions troubled Blake.

He loved the old house and all that it contained and had a deep-seated pride in the Challoner traditions. Now he must show that he was a degenerate scion of the honoured stock and could have no part in them.

"I have forgotten nothing at Sandymere, but we must stick to the subject." Crossing the floor he came back with the chessmen, which he carefully arranged, setting up the white pawns in two separate ranks to represent bodies of infantry, with the knights and bishops for officers. The coloured pieces he placed in an irregular mass.

"Now," he continued, "this represents the disposition of our force pretty well, and I've good reason for remembering it. I was here, at the top of the ravine"—he laid a cigar on the table to indicate the spot—"Bertram on the ridge yonder. This bunch of red pawns stands for the Ghazee rush."

"It agrees with what I've heard," said Challoner, surveying the roughly marked scene of battle with critical eyes. "You were weak in numbers, but your position was strong. It could have been held."

"We'll take Mrs. Chudleigh's suggestion first." Blake began to move the pieces. "The Ghazees rolled straight over our first line; my mine, which might have checked them, wouldn't go off; a broken circuit in the firing wires, I suppose. We were hustled out of the trenches; it was too dark for effective rifle fire."

"The trench the second detachment held should have been difficult to rush."

"Oh! well," said Blake, "you must remember that the beggars were Ghazees; they're hard to stop. Then our men were worn out and had been sniped every night for the last week or two. However, the bugler's the key to my explanation; I'll put this dab of cigar ash here to represent him. This bishop's Bertram, and you can judge by the distance whether the fellow could have heard the order to blow, 'Cease fire,' through the row that was going on."

He resumed his quick moving of the chessmen, accompanying it by a running commentary. "Here's another weak point in the woman's tale, which must be obvious to any one who has handled troops; these fellows couldn't have gained a footing in this hollow because it was raked by our fire. There was no cover and the range was short. Then you see the folly of believing that the section with which the bugler was could have moved along the ridge; they couldn't have crossed between the Ghazees and the trench. They'd have been exposed to our own fire in the rear."

He added more to much the same effect, and concluded: "I think that disposes of Mrs. Chudleigh's theory."

Challoner made a sign of agreement without speaking, and Blake, lighting a fresh cigar, leaned back in his chair. He believed he had succeeded so far, but he was feeling the strain.

"Now I'll deal with Clarke's suggestion; it's certainly ingenious," he said presently and began to rearrange the chessmen.

Proceeding much as he had already done, he followed the movements of the pieces with short explanations, and when he finally swept them up into a heap looked hard at his companion.

"I think you ought to be convinced," he said.

"It all turns upon the bugler's movements," Challoner remarked.

"And he was killed. Mrs. Chudleigh's account presupposes that he was in one place, Clarke's in another, while I've tried to show you that he couldn't have been in either."

Challoner was silent for a time and Blake watched him anxiously until he looked up.

"I think you have succeeded, Dick, though I feel that with a trifling alteration here and there you could have cleared yourself. Now we'll let the painful matter drop for good, unless, indeed, some fresh light is ever thrown on it."

"That can't happen," Blake replied and added with a gleam of humour: "As a matter of fact, I'd sooner remain in friendly obscurity."

Challoner rose and laid a hand on his arm. "If you were once at fault, you have since shown yourself a man of honour. Though the thing hurt me at the time, I'm glad you are my nephew. Had there been any baseness in you, some suspicion must always have rested on your cousin. Well, we are neither of us sentimentalists, but I must say that you have amply made amends."

He turned away and Blake went out into the open air to walk up and down. The face of the old house rose above him, dark against the clear night sky; in front the great oaks in the park rolled back in shadowy masses. Blake, who loved Sandymere, had thought of it often in his wanderings, and now he was glad that through his action his cousin would enjoy it without reproach. After all, it was some return to make for the favours he had received. For himself there remained the charm of the lonely trail and the wide wilderness, unless, indeed, Harding succeeded better than Blake really expected with his petroleum exploitation scheme.

For all that, he had been badly tempted. Poverty and disgrace were serious obstacles to marriage, and had he been free to do so, he would eagerly have sought the hand of Millicent Graham. He knew now that he loved her and it was hard to hold his longing for her in check, but while this must be done for the present he did not altogether despair. He was hopeful and believed that if she loved him, she would not shrink from his painful story, while it was possible that another of his disadvantages might be removed. Harding was confident that they were going to be rich. Thinking about the girl tenderly, he walked up and down the terrace until he grew calm, and then went in to talk to Miss Challoner.

The next fortnight passed uneventfully and then one afternoon he met Millicent in a field-path and turned back with her to Hazlehurst. It was a raw day and the wind had brought a fine colour into her face, while she wore a little fur cap and fur-trimmed jacket which he thought became her very well.

"You have not been over often; Foster was remarking about it," she said to him.

"That's true," said Blake, who had kept away for fear of his resolution melting if he saw much of her. "Still, my uncle seems to think he has a prior claim, and I mayn't be able to stay with him long."

"Then you are going back to Canada?" The quick way the girl looked up, and something in her tone, suggested unpleasant surprise, for she had been taken off her guard.

"I shall have to go when Harding needs me. I haven't heard from him since I arrived, but I'll get my summons sooner or later."

"I thought you had come home for good."

There was rueful humour but no bitterness in Blake's smile. "Oh! no; though I'm very fond of it, Sandymere is not my home. It will be Bertram's by and by and he is married. I'm the poor relation and no great credit to the family."

Millicent's colour deepened, but she looked at him steadily. "I think that is wrong. Since you have been so frank, I may perhaps say that I know there has been a serious mistake somewhere."

"I'm flattered," Blake rejoined, and something in his voice was out of keeping with his half whimsical bow. "It's nice to know your friends think well of you; but you mustn't let your good-nature get the better of your judgment."

"Perhaps I shouldn't have ventured so far." There was a hint of impatience in Millicent's gesture. "But are you content with your life in the North-West?"

"It has its charm. There are very few restrictions, one feels free. The fences haven't reached us yet; you can ride as far as you can see over miles of grass and through the clumps of bush. There's something attractive in the wide horizon; the riband of trail that seems to run forward for ever draws you on."

"But the Arctic frost and snow?"

"After all, they're bracing. Our board shacks with the big stoves in them are fairly warm, and no one can tell what developments may suddenly come about in such a country. A railroad may be run through, wheat-land opened up, minerals found, and wooden cities spring up from the empty plain. Life's rapid and strenuous; one is swept along with the stream."

"But you were in the wilds."

Blake laughed. "We were, but not far behind us the tide of population pours across the plain, and if we had stayed a year or two in the timber, it would have caught us up. That flood won't stop until it reaches the Polar Sea."

"But can people live in a rugged land covered with snow that only melts for a month or two?"

"It depends upon what they find there. So long as the country has natural resources, the climate doesn't count. One hears of precious metals and some are being mined." He paused and added in a tone of humorous confidence: "My partner believes in oil."

They were now close to Hazlehurst and Millicent could ask no more questions because as they reached the high-road Mrs. Keith joined them.

"You might go in and write the letter I told you about," she said to Millicent, and then turned to Blake. "As I want a quiet walk, Dick, I daresay you will keep me company."

Blake said he would be delighted, and when Millicent had left them remarked: "I didn't know you were given to this form of exercise."

"I may as well tell you that I came out because I couldn't take part in the meaningless chatter that was going on. As a matter of fact, I was too disturbed to stay in."

"May one ask what disturbed you?"

"Mrs. Foster's announcement that Mrs. Chudleigh is coming down again. She only heard this morning."

"You think this means a fresh attack upon my persecuted relative?"

"Judge for yourself. Mrs. Chudleigh had no pressing invitation to come back and has not been away long; after all, she and Lucy Foster are not great friends. Now she has only a flimsy excuse for the visit—I've seen her letter. Why should the woman force herself into Hazlehurst, unless it's to be within striking distance of your uncle?"

"I don't know. I suppose she couldn't have come down independently and called on him, because it would have excited remark; but that's not the question. The Colonel mustn't see her."

"How would you prevent his doing so if she goes to the house?"

"I think," said Blake, "the matter could be most effectively dealt with by letting her see me."

"An excellent plan, but if your uncle's to be kept in ignorance, it will need some arranging."

"Undoubtedly," said Blake; "that's your business."

"I suppose I must undertake it. The probability is that Mrs. Chudleigh doesn't know you are at home and she must, if possible, be kept from learning it until she sees you. As she's only down for a few days, I expect she'll make her first move to-morrow. Is your uncle going to the Croxleigh meet?"

"He is; so am I. Is there any risk of Mrs. Chudleigh's turning up at the cover?"

"I don't think so. Foster has only one spare horse, and as he promised it to Millicent I'll see she goes. I'm more afraid that Mrs. Chudleigh will make Lucy Foster take her across to Sandymere in the afternoon, and if I'm able to prevent that, she'll go alone. She has cultivated an acquaintance with your aunt."

"Well," said Blake, "it's a long way to Croxleigh, and the Colonel won't ride hard. He'll probably be satisfied with seeing the hounds throw off and then go quietly home. As it happens, there isn't a direct road."

"Where does all this lead?"

"I should imagine it will be four o'clock when he gets back, while by leaving the hunt and heading straight across country I ought to beat him by some time. In fact, I might get rid of the lady before he arrives. After she has seen me she mayn't wish to stay."

"Very well," said Mrs. Keith. "If Lucy goes to Sandymere, I'll go with them and hurry them off as soon as I can. Then I'll try to make an opportunity for you."

After a few more words she dismissed him and turned back to Hazlehurst. She thought the plan would work.



CHAPTER XXX

MRS. CHUDLEIGH'S DEFEAT

Challoner kept one or two good horses, though he no longer used them much, and he and his nephew were well mounted when they rode to Croxleigh gorse. As the place was difficult of access, the meet had been arranged late, and it was after mid-day when they drew near a broad stretch of furze on the crest of a grassy hill. Mounted men and a few women were climbing the slope, the scarlet coats shining in a gleam of light, carriages and motors were drawn up in the shelter of a beech wood, and from the summit there fell a faint blast of a horn.

It was a raw day, with a nipping wind and blinks of sunshine that swept across grass and ploughland and faded again. There were glistening pools in the narrow road and drops of moisture hung on the briars and withered fern along the hedgerows. Both Challoner and Blake were dressed in sober tweed, for the Colonel said he only wore the pink when he felt fit to follow the hounds and now he must be content to see them find. Glancing at his watch, he pulled up his horse to a walk.

"We are in good time, and it's generally a lengthy matter getting a fox out of the gorse," he said. "Though we haven't hurried, it's rather a long way, and I feel I have done enough. Don't trouble about me when the hounds get off. I expect to pick up some elderly crony, and, if the fox does not run straight, may be able to see something of the hunt after an easy ride; then I'll jog quietly home."

"I'll stay with you, if you'd prefer it, sir," Blake declared, though this was far from his wish, but Challoner shook his head.

"Get a good run if you can, my boy. Old folks mustn't be selfish, and I know what young blood is." He turned and regarded Blake affectionately. "You have been a good nephew, Dick, and since you came home I have felt that I ought to make some provision for you. That, of course, was my intention when you were young, but when the break occurred you cut yourself adrift and refused assistance."

Blake coloured, for there were, he thought, adequate reasons why he should take no further favours from his uncle. If the truth about the frontier affair ever came out, it would look as if he had valued his honour less than the money he could extort and the Colonel would bear the stigma of having bought his silence.

"I'm grateful, sir, but I must still refuse," he said.

"But why? The property would stand the cost of the arrangement I thought of making, and Bertram wouldn't feel that I had been unfair to him; besides, his wife has means."

"Bertram's as generous as you are; he pressed me to take some help from him in Montreal, but I could not consent."

"I think you were wrong, and see I have made a mistake. I should have stuck to my first intention of saying nothing about it and putting you into my will, but it struck me that you would like to know how you stood, in case you thought of marrying or going in for farming on a remunerative scale in Canada."

"Thank you, but if my future is to be provided for, I'm the person who ought to look after it. There's no reason why it should become a charge on you."

"I think there is," Challoner rejoined. "In fact, I feel somewhat hurt that you don't see it."

Blake was touched, but his determination held. "I'm glad you made me the offer, sir, because it shows I haven't forfeited your regard. You must, however, let me have my way, particularly as I see a chance of making money."

"Then you have some plan?"

"My partner has," Blake answered, smiling. "I leave that kind of thing to him. I told you about the oil."

"You did, and Clarke had something to say upon the subject. He, however, gave me to understand that capital was needed."

"That is so," Blake replied unguardedly, for he did not see where his uncle's remark led. "Boring plant is expensive, and transport costs something. Then you have to spend a good deal beforehand if you wish to float a company."

"But you believe this venture will pay you?"

"Harding is convinced of it, and he's shrewd. Personally, I don't know enough about the business to judge, but if I had any money to risk I'd take his word for it."

"Well," said Challoner, urging his horse to a trot, "perhaps we had better get on."

They joined the company gathered round the edge of the gorse and when Challoner greeted an acquaintance Blake found what he thought was a good place for getting a start from. He could hear the cries of the huntsman and an occasional blast of his horn among the furze; once or twice a ranging dog broke cover and disappeared again. Outside, red-coated men and some in grey jammed their hats tight and tried to keep their fidgeting horses quiet. Close by a young girl, finely habited, with a glowing face, gracefully controlled her plunging mount, and a few older women seemed to have some trouble in holding their thoroughbreds. Everybody wore a strained, eager look, but Blake was disappointed, for although he looked round for Millicent and Foster he did not see them.

By and by a deep baying broke out and swelled into a burst of thrilling sound, the horn called sharply, somebody shouted, and there was a rush of well-mounted riders towards a corner of the gorse. Then the hounds streamed out, speeding across the grassy slope with a small, red-brown object travelling very fast some distance in front. Blake, who let his chestnut go, swept down the hill at a furious gallop, and felt the horse rise and heard a thud of hoofs on sloppy ground as a fence was cleared. Then he toiled across a strip of ploughing, with firm grip on the bridle, for, exhilarating as the chase was, he could not enjoy it long. In his younger days he had hunted the country he was now riding over, he had been a crack polo player, and had covered wide stretches of the Canadian prairie in the saddle. He could feel the power of the good horse he bestrode, the speed fired his blood, and for the first few minutes he had been in danger of forgetting that the keen pleasure he was conscious of could not be enjoyed long.

There was a crash as they broke through the top of a bending hedge, he heard a rail break beneath the hoofs, and they were flying across a wide pasture, the chestnut pulling hard. It needed some strength of will to hold him, but Blake did so, keeping his place behind the foremost while the rest of the hunt tailed out. After another awkward jump or two most of the rearguard were out of sight, scattering, no doubt, in search of gates, and Blake was not pleased to find himself level with two well-mounted, red-coated men. There was a brook with a fringe of willows along its side not far ahead and, a short distance to the right, a deep, tree-shrouded hollow. This was where he must break off, but, sitting a good horse in the company of hard-riding men, it was not pleasant to look as if he shirked the leap.

"'Ware rotten bank!" cried one, glancing round at him. "Head for the pollard stump!"

"Give me a lead," Blake shouted. "You know the country."

With a strong effort, he held the chestnut back, and saw the first red-coated figure rise above the willows and alight with the mire flying among the rushes across the stream. Then he swung to the right, where he remembered there was a broad, shallow place, and drove the chestnut at its widest part. They came down with a great splash and the horse floundered badly, for the bottom was soft, but Blake had done what he meant to do, and as the second horseman leaped across a narrower spot he caught a sympathetic, "Hard luck!"

Then he turned the chestnut and scrambling out upon the bank he had left trotted to the hollow, where he was lost among the trees before the tail of the hunt came up. He thought he had withdrawn himself neatly and must now get home as soon as possible, because if his uncle saw no opportunity of picking up the hounds again after an easy ride, he might return before Mrs. Chudleigh could be dealt with.

Crossing a sunk lane by and by, Blake, who glanced at his watch, held straight across the fields, and was glad to find that the hunt-club subsidies had had some effect in determining the nature of the fences. The most part could be jumped without much trouble, but the chestnut was foul-coated and flecked with spume when at length he turned into a road. There he pulled up to a steady trot and got home, rather wet and splashed with mire, early in the afternoon, and after a bath and change felt himself ready for the encounter. He had not much diplomacy, but thought he could make up for that by stubbornly sticking to his point.

As he sat in the library with the door left open he heard Mrs. Foster and her friends arrive and recognized the voices. Mrs. Keith had come and Millicent, besides another lady whom he surmised was Mrs. Chudleigh. He hardly thought his aunt, whom he had not taken into his confidence, would mention him, and it might be better if he waited until tea was served, after which the party would probably separate and saunter about the hall and picture gallery. It was important that he should have a few words with Mrs. Chudleigh alone. Fortune favoured him, for when he entered the gallery she stood before a picture and the nearest of her companions was some yards further on. She started when he came up and joined her.

"You remember me, though I imagine my appearance is a surprise to you," he said with a bow.

"Yes," she answered calmly, though she had received something of a shock. "Nobody told me you had returned from Canada."

"There was no obvious reason for thinking you would be interested. But will you sit down? My uncle has some rather good miniatures which might please you. They're in yonder drawer."

She looked at him sharply. "You may bring them. I suppose you have something to say."

Blake placed the case of miniatures on a table and she took up one or two. "They are worth seeing, and in good French style; beauties of Marie Antoinette's court, perhaps, though this one in the high-waisted dress may have been attached to Josephine's." Then she put them down with a smile. "Now they have served their purpose. What have you to say?"

"You must excuse the bluntness which I feel is needful. You came over to see my uncle and I'm afraid you were disappointed in finding me instead."

"Suppose I admit it? That wouldn't prevent my seeing Colonel Challoner another time."

"Certainly not, provided that you still wished to do so, but I'm inclined to think you won't consider it necessary when you know what my attitude is. You must realize that a good deal depends on this."

"Yes," she said frankly, "in a sense, you're important. I see you understand the situation."

"You believe you have the power to force my uncle into furthering a plan of yours. You found him obstinate at your first attempt, but you think his resolution may since have given way."

"Yes," she said; "if I insist, he cannot refuse me."

"That is where we differ. I'm in your way, and you'll excuse my saying that you'll find me rather troublesome to remove. Then a secret loses its value when people find it out, and it's perhaps news to you that a man from Canada called upon my uncle not long since with a story very like yours. He found the Colonel no more amenable than you did."

Mrs. Chudleigh looked surprised, but that was all. "It may save us both trouble if you tell me candidly what you mean to do."

Blake glanced down the gallery. Mrs. Keith was sitting at a table with some old prints spread out before her, but as the light was fading he hardly supposed that she could see him well, though he imagined that she was watching. In the background Mrs. Foster was talking to Miss Challoner, with Millicent standing in the shadow. The Challoner portraits were growing indistinct, though their heavy gold frames glimmered faintly, and he could no longer distinguish the carving on the ends of the dark oak beams. Though he thought he was safe from interruption by any of the others, Blake realized that he had no time to lose, because Challoner must arrive soon.

"Yes," he said, "I think it would be better. Well, I mean to relieve my uncle from any further attacks of the kind you have made on him and to defend my cousin's honour. You must see that you are powerless to injure it unless I confirm your tale."

Mrs. Chudleigh clenched her hand and her eyes flashed. "You are willing to bear undeserved disgrace, to wander about Canada, an outcast from all society you could take pleasure in? It's incomprehensible, unless you have something to gain."

Blake regarded her with a tolerant smile. "My dear lady, it's obvious that I should not gain anything by supporting your ingenious theory of what happened on the frontier, because if you were right, your only power over the Colonel would lie in his supposed desire to keep it quiet, which would, of course, prevent my clearing my character. If, however, you wish to believe that I have been bought over by him or Bertram, you must do so. I'll own that it seems the best explanation; but I should then have a strong reason for opposing you."

"But you are opposing me."

"Yes," said Blake. "My object in doing so hasn't much bearing on the matter so far as you are concerned, but it will simplify things if you will realize that I mean to stand between my relatives and harm. I'm not a clever player of this kind of game, but you must see I hold the ace of trumps among my cards. Now you know I'm ready to play it, don't you think it would be wiser to leave the Colonel alone?"

For a few moments she looked at him in silence, and though she burned with anger and disappointment she kept her head. She was beaten; no art that she could practise and no argument would prevail against the man's resolution. The only thing left was to retire with as much dignity as possible from the fight.

"Well," she answered, getting up, "I suppose there is no more to be said, and after all you might have shown me less consideration. I must do you the justice to admit that I believe you are acting out of loyalty to your friends."

"Thank you," Blake said with a bow. "Now I notice Mrs. Foster coming towards us and imagine that she doesn't mean to stay much longer."

Mrs. Chudleigh left him, and in another few minutes Mrs. Foster declared that she must go, while as they walked towards the staircase Mrs. Keith came up to Blake.

"Well?" she asked in an anxious tone.

Blake smiled at her. "I think we needn't fear any further trouble."

Admiration shone in Margaret Keith's eyes. "It's a great relief, though I knew the worst danger was over when you came home. None of the Challoners ever did so fine a thing, Dick."

She went by before he could answer and he turned back into the gallery while the others descended to the hall. Standing near a window, he saw Foster's car speed down the drive; then the hoot of the horn reached him from the corner by the lodge, and there was silence again. It was broken a few minutes later by a beat of hoofs, and Blake, looking out, saw Challoner dismount.

"Where did you get to, Dick?" the Colonel asked when his nephew went down to meet him. "I saw you close behind the hounds for a time, but you disappeared and nobody seemed to know what had become of you."

"I had a good run," Blake said, smiling. "Then I dropped out and rode home across country. I remembered that there was something I had to do."

"It must have been something important to take you off the field when the hounds were running as they were then."

"I thought the matter needed attention," Blake rejoined, lighting a cigar.



CHAPTER XXXI

A DIFFICULT QUESTION

On the evening after Mrs. Chudleigh's visit, Challoner sent for Blake, who had just returned from an afternoon's shooting with Foster. The Colonel was sitting in a big leather chair near a good fire, but he had a heavy rug wrapped about him.

"Had you good sport?" he asked. "You must have found it very cold standing about the covers."

"We made a fair bag. The air was raw, but nothing unusual."

"I can't keep warm; I've been shivering all day. It looks as if I'd got a chill waiting outside Croxleigh gorse, but that is not what I want to talk about." His tone grew sharper. "It's curious that I wasn't told Mrs. Chudleigh came here yesterday; had you anything to do with keeping the information from me?"

"I'm afraid I must own up, sir. I thought it might disturb you, if you knew."

"Your intentions were, no doubt, good, but please remember in future that I can't permit things that concern me to be taken out of my hands. I believe I'm still capable of managing my affairs."

It struck Blake that his uncle looked ill, which might account for his asperity, and he made an apologetic answer.

"You may as well tell me what she said," Challoner resumed.

"As a matter of fact, she didn't say very much," Blake answered with a twinkle. "I did most of the talking, but you must guess her object; she seems a persistent lady."

"Then what did you say?"

"I tried to show her that she was helpless to make any trouble so long as I stuck to my guns, and I think she recognized it. Anyhow, Foster mentioned that she told his wife this morning she was afraid she couldn't stay as long as she had expected. I suppose this means she's ready to leave the field as soon as she can do so without exciting curiosity."

Challoner looked much relieved, but when Blake left him he grew thoughtful. His nephew's demonstration with the chessmen had lifted a weight off his mind, but he was troubled by a doubt about the absolute correctness of his explanation. Moreover, when he dwelt upon it, the doubt gathered strength, but there was nothing that he could do; Dick obviously meant to stick to his story, and Bertram could not be questioned. Another matter troubled him; Dick, whom he had meant to provide for, would not allow it, and though Challoner admired his independence he thought Dick was carrying it too far.

In the meanwhile, Blake sought Miss Challoner and said, "I don't think my uncle's looking fit. Mightn't it be better to send for Dr. Onslow?"

"He wouldn't be pleased," Miss Challoner answered dubiously "Still, he sometimes enjoys a talk with Onslow, who's a tactful man. If he looked in, as it were, casually——"

"Yes," said Blake; "we'll give him a hint. I'll send the groom with a note at once."

The doctor came and left without expressing any clear opinion, but when he returned next day he ordered Challoner to bed and told Blake he feared a sharp attack of pneumonia. His fears were justified, for it was some weeks before Challoner was able to leave his room. During his illness he insisted on his nephew's company whenever the nurses would allow it, and when he began to recover, again begged him to remain at Sandymere. He had come to lean upon the younger man and entrusted him with all the business of the estate, which he was no longer able to attend to.

"Dick," he said one day when Blake thought he was too ill to perceive that he was casting a reflection on his son, "I wish my personal means were larger, so I could give Bertram enough and leave Sandymere to you; then I'd know the place would be in good hands. On the surface, you're a happy-go-lucky fellow, but that's deceptive. In reality, you have a surprising grip of things—however, you know my opinion of you. But you won't go away, Dick?"

The nurse interrupted them, and Blake was glad he had written to Harding stating his inability to rejoin him. A week or two later he received a cable message: "No hurry."

When spring came he was still at Sandymere, for Challoner, who got better very slowly, would not let him go, and saw Millicent frequently. At first he felt that this was a weakness, since he had nothing to offer her except a tainted name, but his love was getting beyond control and his resistance feebler. After all, he thought, the story of the Indian disaster must be almost forgotten, and Harding had a good chance of finding the oil. If the latter had not already started for the North, he would do so soon, but Blake had had no news from him since his cabled message.

Then, after a quiet month, things began to happen, for one afternoon when Challoner had driven over to Hazlehurst with his nephew, Foster came in from the station, bringing a newspaper. The party was sitting in the conservatory; Mrs. Keith talking to Challoner, Millicent and Blake standing close by, but there were no other guests, and Mrs. Chudleigh had left some weeks earlier. Foster sat down near the Colonel.

"Here's a paragraph that may be of interest; it wasn't in the morning papers." he remarked. "I believe I've heard Miss Graham and Mrs. Chudleigh mention a Captain Sedgwick."

"Yes," said Millicent; "we both knew him, but what has he been doing?"

"He seems to have got into trouble, but I'll read you the account."

The interest he had roused was obvious. Challoner leaned forward with an intent face, Blake dropped the match with which he was lighting a cigarette, while Mrs. Keith fixed her eyes eagerly on Foster. Millicent was the least concerned, and she wondered at the others' air of tension while Foster unfolded his paper.

"'Telegraphic news has been received of a disaster to a small British force in Western Africa,' he read. 'Captain Sedgwick left his headquarters at Ambolana with a detachment of native troops to demand guarantees of good behaviour from the headman of a fortified village near the French frontier. The expedition was ambushed in thick jungle, but, escaping after heavy loss, made a stand against large numbers at a place which appears to lie outside the British boundary. Here Sedgwick again suffered some loss before a body of French black troops appeared upon the field. Further details are anxiously waited, since the affair, which is complicated by a doubt about the headman's suzerainty, may lead to strong representations from France.'"

"It looks as if your friend will get a wigging," Foster remarked to Millicent as he laid down the paper. "As I understand it, the Government doesn't thank too zealous officers who make trouble with our neighbours, unless there's some substantial gain. There can't be any in this case, because the French had to rescue the fellow."

"Then I'm sorry for Captain Sedgwick," Millicent replied. "I met him in Quebec, but only saw him for a few weeks." She turned to Blake. "The news seems to have made some impression on you."

"It has, in a way," Blake admitted with embarrassment, because he did not wish his interest to be noticed. "As it happens, I've heard a good deal about the man."

Then Mrs. Keith beckoned the girl. "I think I left my outdoor spectacles in my room; would you mind getting them?"

Millicent went away and Mrs. Keith led Foster to talk about something else, because she saw that his wife's curiosity was aroused. It was undesirable that any one should guess that the news had its importance to Challoner. Prudence prevented her saying anything to her old friend alone before he left, but she gave him a look which was expressive of relief and satisfaction. As they drove home Challoner turned to Blake.

"I'll know more about the matter in a day or two," he said. "Greythorpe's coming down."

"In my opinion, Sedgwick has ruined himself," Blake replied. "No influence could get him the appointment now."

This view was taken by Greythorpe when he sat talking with Challoner a few evenings afterwards.

"You were right about Captain Sedgwick," he remarked. "The man came near getting us into serious difficulties. I suppose you have read the newspaper account?"

"Yes. You have more complete information?"

Greythorpe nodded. "The other was accurate, so far as it went. The fellow played a bold stroke, making the usual excuse; the necessity for putting an end to the depredations and barbarities of a native headman."

"To do him justice, I daresay the excuse was good."

"It's possible, but Sedgwick's motive was not humanitarian. He knew that if he could seize the headman's stronghold and effectively occupy the surrounding country, we should stay there and after a protest or two the French would have to acquiesce. As it happened, he bungled the business, and, worst of all, had to be extricated by the people he meant to outwit. They led him politely but very firmly across the frontier, and now it's our part to express our regret and promise to avoid any fresh aggression."

"What will you do with Sedgwick?"

"He'll have to be reprimanded, and after this we can't trust him with independent authority. He's too venturesome, though I'll admit that it would have been different if he had succeeded. Still, he has his talents, and I daresay we'll find him useful in a subordinate post. I'm inclined to sympathize with your friend Mrs. Chudleigh."

Challoner made no answer to this, and they talked about matters until Blake came in, when Greythorpe left them alone together.

"He agrees with you about the African affair," said the Colonel. "Sedgwick is, so to speak, done for and will be kept in the background after this."

"It's more important that Mrs. Chudleigh is disposed of," Blake replied. "As she can't help the man, she'll no longer have any motive for troubling us, and I don't think she would do so out of malice. That sets me free, and as you're getting strong again I ought to go back to Canada as soon as I can."

"If you feel you must go, I'll have to consent."

"I've a duty to my partner. It's probable that he has already set off, but I know where to find him and there'll be plenty to do. For one thing, as transport is expensive, we'll have to relay our supplies over very rough country and that means making the same stage several times, while I don't suppose Harding will have been able to buy very efficient boring plant."

"He may have done better than you imagined," Challoner remarked. "A man as capable as he seems to be would somehow get hold of what was needful."

Blake was surprised at this, because his uncle understood their financial difficulties; but he said, "There's a fast boat next Saturday. I think I'll go by her."

"Wait another week, to please me," Challoner urged him. "You have had a dull time since I've been ill, and now I'd like you to get about. I shall miss you badly, Dick."

Blake agreed. He felt that he ought to have sailed earlier, but the temptation to remain was strong. He now met Millicent every day, and it might be a very long time before he returned to England. He feared that he was laying up trouble for himself, but he recklessly determined to make the most of the present, and, in spite of his misgivings, the next eight or nine days brought him many delightful hours. Now she knew he was going, Millicent abandoned the reserve she had sometimes shown. She was sympathetic, interested in his plans, and, he thought, wonderfully charming. They were rapidly drawn closer together, and the more he learned of her character, the stronger his admiration grew. At times he imagined he noticed a tender shyness in her manner, and though it delighted him he afterwards took himself to task. He was not acting honourably; he had no right to win this girl's love, as he was trying to do, but there was the excuse that she knew his history and it had not made her cold to him.

In the meanwhile, Mrs. Keith, who had grown very fond of her companion and entirely approved of her, looked on with observant eyes and made opportunities for throwing the two together. One afternoon a day or two before Blake's departure she called Millicent into her room and asked her abruptly: "Have you ever thought about your future?"

"Not often since I have been with you," Millicent answered. "Before that it used to trouble me."

"Then I'm afraid you're imprudent. You have no relations you could look to for help, and while my health is pretty good I can't, of course, live for ever. I might leave you something, but it would not be much, because my property is earmarked for a particular purpose."

Millicent wondered where this led, but Mrs. Keith went on: "As you have found out, I'm a frank old woman and not afraid to say what I think. Well, considering how attractive you are, there's a way out of the difficulty, and I believe it's the best one. You ought to marry; it's your true vocation."

"I'm not sure," said Millicent, blushing. "Besides it mightn't be possible. I owe everything to your generosity, but you have brought me into a station where I must stand comparison with girls who have more advantages."

"You mean they have more money? Well, it's not to be despised, but I've met men who didn't attach too much importance to it. They had the sense to see there were other things of greater value, and while I don't often flatter people, you're not poor in this respect. But if you liked a man who was far from rich, would you marry him?"

"It would depend," Millicent replied, while her colour deepened. "Why do you ask? I can't give you a general answer."

"Then give me a particular one; I want to know."

The girl was embarrassed, but she had learned that her employer was not to be put off easily.

"I suppose his being poor wouldn't daunt me, if I loved him enough."

"Then we'll suppose something else. If he had done something to be ashamed of?"

Millicent looked up with a flash in her eyes. "People are so ready to believe the worst. He did nothing that he need blush for—that's impossible." Then she saw the trap into which her generous indignation had led her, but instead of looking down in confusion she boldly faced Mrs. Keith. "Yes," she added, "if he loved me, I would marry him in spite of what people are foolish enough to think."

"And you would not regret it." Mrs. Keith laid her hand on the girl's arm with a caressing touch. "My dear, if you value your happiness, you will tell him so. Remember that he is going away in a day or two."

"How can I tell him?" Millicent cried with burning face. "I only—I mean you tricked me into telling you."

"It shouldn't be difficult to give him a tactful hint, and that wouldn't be a remarkably unusual course," Mrs. Keith rejoined with amusement. "The idea that a proposal comes quite spontaneously is to some extent a convention nowadays. I don't suppose you need reminding that we dine at Sandymere to-morrow."

Millicent made no reply, and as she seemed rather overwhelmed by her employer's frankness, the latter took pity on her.

"You might ask Foster for the review he promised me, but you can send it up instead of coming back," she said, and added as Millicent turned away: "Think over what I told you."

The recommendation was superfluous, because Millicent thought of nothing else. She knew Blake was her lover and believed she understood why he had not declared himself. Now he might go away without speaking if she let him. Mrs. Keith's blunt candour left her no excuse for shirking the truth; she loved the man, but it was hateful to feel that she must make the first advances and reveal her tenderness for him. She said she could not do so and yet vacillated, for the alternative was worse.



CHAPTER XXXII

HARDING STRIKES OIL

Next evening Millicent accompanied Mrs. Keith to Sandymere in a troubled mood. Dinner was a trying function, because she sat next to Foster, who talked in a humorous strain and expected her to appreciate his jokes. She found it hard to smile at the right moment and noticed that Blake was unusually quiet. It was his last evening in England.

When they went into the drawing-room Challoner engaged her in conversation for a time and she was afterwards asked to sing. An hour passed before Blake had an opportunity of exchanging a word with her, and then Miss Challoner was sitting close by.

"They'll make you sing again if you stop here," he said softly.

She understood that he wanted her to himself and thrilled at something in his voice, but instead of complying she asked: "Don't you wish me to?"

"Yes, of course," he answered lamely and was silent for a few moments. Then he resumed: "You're interested in Eastern brasswork, I think?"

"I hardly know," said Millicent. "I haven't seen much of it."

She was vexed with herself for her prudish weakness. An opportunity that might never be repeated was offered her, and she could not muster the courage to seize it. Blake, however, did not seem daunted.

"You said you were delighted with the things my uncle showed you when you were last here and a friend has just sent him a fresh lot from Benares." He gave her an appealing look. "It struck me you might like to see them."

"Yes," said Millicent with forced calm; "I really think I would."

"Will you give me the key of the Indian collection?" Blake asked Challoner.

"Here it is," said the Colonel, who turned to Mrs. Keith. "That reminds me, you haven't seen my new treasures yet. Dryhurst has lately sent me some rather good things; among others there's a small Buddha, exquisitely carved. Shall we go and look at them?"

Mrs. Keith felt angry with him for a marplot, but she said: "Wouldn't it be better to wait until I'm here in the daylight? If I try to examine anything closely with these spectacles, they strain my eyes."

"I've had a new lamp placed in front of the case," Challoner persisted, and Mrs. Keith found it hard to forgive him for his obtuseness.

"Very well," she said in a resigned tone, and when Millicent and Blake had gone out walked slowly to the door with Challoner.

They were half way up the staircase which led rather sharply from the hall when she stopped and turned to her companion.

"It's obvious that you have recovered," she said.

"I certainly feel much better, but what prompted your remark?"

"These stairs. You don't seem to feel them, but if you expect me to run up and down, you'll have to make them shallower and less steep. I've been up twice since I came; Hilda insisted on my seeing the new decorations in the west wing, and I must confess to a weakness in my knee."

Challoner gave her a sharp glance and then said, "I'm sorry. Mrs. Foster mentioned something about your not walking much; I should have remembered."

"It's the weather; I find the damp troublesome. If you don't mind, I think we'll go down."

Challoner gave her his arm, and Millicent, standing in the picture gallery, noticed their return. She suspected that this was the result of some manoeuvre of Mrs. Keith's intended for her advantage, and tried to summon her resolution. The man she loved would sail next day, believing that his poverty and the stain he had not earned must stand between them, unless she could force herself to give him a hint to the contrary. This was the only sensible course, but she timidly shrank from it.

Blake unlocked a glass case and taking out two shelves laid them on a table. "There they are," he said with a rather nervous smile. "I've no doubt the things are interesting, and if our friends come up they can look at them. But it wasn't Benares brassware that brought me here."

"Was it not?" Millicent asked with a fluttering heart.

"Certainly not! One couldn't talk with Foster enlarging upon the only rational way of rearing pheasants, and you know I'm going away first thing to-morrow."

"Yes; I know," said Millicent, and then looked up at him with sudden courage. "I'm sorry."

"Truly sorry; you mean that?" He gave her a very keen glance while he knitted his brows.

"Yes," she said recklessly; "I mean it. You ought to know I do."

He laid his hand on her shoulder, holding her a little away from him. "I came up here in a state of horrible indecision, torn different ways by a sense of the duty I owed you and my selfish longing. Even if nothing had been said to make it harder for me, I can't tell how the struggle would have ended."

"Why should there be a struggle?" she asked him.

His grasp tightened and his eyes were steadily fixed upon her face. "You're very young and beautiful and, though I love you, I'm a broken man."

"Then it's through no fault of yours."

"The consequences are the same and, apart from this, I have nothing to offer. Can you wonder, my dear, that I was afraid? I come to you a beggar, with everything to gain."

"Ah!" she said, "all I have to give is yours; I think it was yours before you asked for it."

"Then you are not afraid?"

She looked at him with a happy smile. "What should I fear? Aren't you able to take care of me? It must be for my sake that you are so timid and I love you for it, but I think this must be the first time you ever hesitated long. Where has your usual recklessness gone?"

"It's coming back." He passed his arm about her waist, drawing her strongly to him. "We'll laugh at cold-blooded prudence and take our chances. It's a wide world, and we'll find a nook somewhere if we go out and look for it. All my care will be to smooth the trail for your dear, pretty feet."

They spent a time in happy talk, and Blake murmured when Millicent protested that they must go back, while she feared that her lover's exultant air would betray them as they entered the drawing-room.

"Where's the key?" Challoner asked.

"I'm afraid I forgot it, sir," Blake confessed. "Very sorry, but I'm not even sure I put the things away."

Challoner rang a bell and gave an order to a servant. Then he asked Millicent: "Did you see the Buddha?"

"No," she said. "I don't think so."

"Or the brass plate with the fantastic serpent pattern round the rim?"

"I'm afraid I didn't," Millicent owned with a trace of confusion.

Challoner looked hard at Blake, and then his eyes twinkled.

"Well," he said pointedly, "perhaps it wasn't to be expected."

There was a moment's silence. Millicent looked down with the colour in her face; Blake stood very straight, smiling at the others. Then he said, "We are all friends here, and I'm proud to announce that Millicent has promised to marry me as soon as I return from Canada." He bowed to Mrs. Keith and the Colonel. "As you have taken her guardian's place, madam, and you, sir, are the head of the house, I should like to think we have your approval."

"How formal, Dick!" said Mrs. Keith with a laugh. "I imagine my consent is very much a matter of form, but I give it with the greatest satisfaction."

Challoner got up and took Millicent's hand. "My dear, I am very glad, and I think Dick has shown great wisdom. I wish you both all happiness."

Mrs. Foster and her husband offered their congratulations, and for the next hour they discussed Blake's future plans, after which they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant with a small silver tray.

"Telegram, sir, for Mr. Blake," he said. "Hopkins was at the post office, and they gave it him."

Blake took the envelope and looked at Miss Challoner for permission to open it. When he had done so, he started and gave the form to Millicent.

"Oh, Dick!" she cried with sparkling eyes. "Isn't this very good."

"I believe so." Blake turned to the others. "After the good feeling you have shown towards us, I daresay you'll be interested to hear my partner's latest news." He read out: "'Come. Struck it. Tell Challoner.'"

He turned to Mrs. Keith. "This should set me firmly on my feet and may make me rich." Then he addressed Challoner. "But I don't understand the last of it. Why does he wish you to know?"

The Colonel chuckled. "I sent Mr. Harding five hundred pounds to buy anything he needed for his prospecting, and told him to give me an option on a good block of shares in the new syndicate at par. You're very independent, Dick, but I can't see why you should object to your relatives putting money into what looks like a promising thing."

"I've no doubt it was mainly through your help Harding found the oil," Blake said gratefully.

Soon after this the Fosters rose to go, but they waited sympathetically in the hall while Millicent lingered with Blake in the drawing-room.

"Dick," she said, blushing, "you made a rash statement, I didn't quite promise to marry you as soon as you came back."

"Then it was understood," Blake answered firmly.

"I can't let you off."

"Well," she said; "if it will bring you home any quicker, dear! But how long must you stay?"

"I can't tell; there may be much to do and, if Harding needs me, I must see it out, but I won't delay a minute more than's needful. You know we may have to live in Canada?"

"Yes," she said shyly; "I won't object. Where you are will be home."

Then Foster opened the door. "The car's waiting, and it's coming on to rain."

Millicent went out with him; and Blake, who sailed next day, found, on reaching the timber belt, that, as he had predicted, there was much to be done. After some months' hard work, Harding, who was confident that the oil would pay handsomely, left him in charge while he set off for the cities to arrange about pipes and plant and the raising of capital. It was early winter when he returned, satisfied with what he had accomplished, and Blake saw that he would be able to visit England in a few weeks.

He was sitting in their office shack one bitter day when a sledge arrived with supplies, and the teamster brought him a telegram. His face grew grave as he opened it and read—

"Bertram killed in action.—Challoner."

"This sets you free, doesn't it?" Harding remarked after expressing his sympathy.

"I can't tell," Blake answered. "I haven't thought of it in such a light. I was very fond of my cousin."

"But the action must have been in India," Harding resumed after a while. "Didn't you tell me Captain Challoner was coming home?"

"He gave up a good appointment when he found his regiment was to be sent to a station where there was a likelihood of some fighting. I think I can guess the reason."

Shortly before Blake left the camp he received further news by mail and some English newspapers. Bertram had been shot when leading an attack upon a fort among the frontier hills, and the accounts agreed that he had shown exceptional gallantry.

On reaching England, Blake found Millicent at the station. Mrs. Keith, she told him, had given up her London house and taken one near Sandymere. Then she looked thoughtful when he asked about his uncle.

"I'm afraid you will see a marked change in him," she said. "He has not been well since you left, and the news of Bertram's death was a shock."

She was with him when he met Challoner, who looked very frail and forlorn.

"It's a comfort to see you back, Dick; you are all I have now," he said, and went on with a break in his voice: "After all, it was a good end my boy made—a very daring thing! The place was supposed to be unassailable by such a force as he had, but he stormed it. In spite of his fondness for painting, he was true to strain."

Some time later Blake said to Millicent, "You heard what he told me, dear? The secret must still be kept; I can't speak."

"No," said Millicent, "not while your uncle lives. It's hard, when I want everybody to know what you are."

He kissed her. "I daresay it's natural that you should be prejudiced in my favour, but I like it."

"Oh!" she answered, smiling, "I've no doubt you have some faults, but you're very staunch. You must do what you think right, Dick, and I'll try to be content. One reason for my loving you is that you are brave enough to take this generous part."



THE END