"What does it mean?" whispered Dora.

"You never saw anything like the lives those ragpickers lead, Dora," observed Lady Deane, looking up from her task. "I was talking to one this morning and he said——"

"Maitre d'hotel for me," broke in Sir Roger.

"I haven't a notion," murmured Charlie.

"Look here, what's your liquor, Laing?"

"Anything; with this thirst on me——"

"There are ample materials for a revolution more astonishing and sanguinary——"

"Nonsense, General, yon must have something to drink."

"Can they have changed their minds again, Dolly?"

"They must have, if Mr. Laing is——"

"Dry? I should think I was. So would you be, if you'd been playing tennis."

Laing cut across the currents of conversation:

"Hope no harm done, Miss Bellairs, about that wire?"

"I—I—I don't think so."

"Or yours, Charlie?"

Charlie took a hopeful view.

"Upon my honor, Laing, I'm glad you hid it."

"Oh, I see!" cried Laing. "Tip for the wrong 'un, eh, and too late to put it on now?"

"You're not far off," answered Charlie Ellerton.

"Roger, is it to-night that the General is going to take me to the——"

"Hush! Not before Miss Bellairs, my dear! Consider her filial feelings. You and the General must make a quiet bolt of it. We're only going to the Palais-Royal."

The arrival of fish brought a momentary pause, but the first mouthful was hardly swallowed when Arthur Laing started, hunted hastily for his eyeglass, and stuck it in his eye.

"Yes, it is them," said he. "See, Charlie, that table over there. They've got their backs to us, but lean see 'em in the mirror."

"See who?" asked Charlie in an irritable tone.

"Why, those honeymooners. I say, Lady Deane, it's a queer thing to have a lady's-maid to breakf—Why, by Jove, she's with them now! Look!"

His excited interest aroused the attention of the whole party, and they looked across the long room.

"Ashforth's their name," concluded Laing. "I heard the Abigail call him Ashforth; and the lady is——"

He was interrupted by the clatter of a knife and fork falling on a plate. He turned in the direction whence the sound came.

Dora Bellairs leant back in her chair, her hands in her lap; Charlie Ellerton had hidden himself behind the wine-list. Lady Deane, her husband, and the General gazed inquiringly at Dora.

At the same instant there came a shrill little cry from the other end of the room. The mirror had served Mary Travers as well as it had Laing. For a moment she spoke hastily to her companion; then she and John rose, and, with radiant smiles on their faces, advanced toward their friends. The long-expected meeting had come; at last.

Dora sat still, in consternation. Charlie, peeping out from behind his menu, saw the approach.

"Now, in Heaven's name," he groaned, "are they married or aren't they?" and having said this he awaited the worst.



CHAPTER X

MR. AND NOT MRS. ASHFORTH

Suum cuique: to the Man belongeth courage in great things, but in affairs of small moment Woman is pre-eminent. Charlie Ellerton was speechless; Dora Bellairs, by a supreme effort, rose on shaking legs and advanced with outstretched hands to meet John Ashforth.

"Mr. Ashforth, I declare! Who would have thought of meeting you here?" she exclaimed; and she added in an almost imperceptible, mysterious whisper, "Hush!"

John at once understood that he was to make no reference to the communications which had resulted in this happy meeting. He expressed a friendly gratification in appropriate words. Dora began to breathe again; everything was passing off well. Suddenly she glanced from John to Mary. Mary stood alone, about three yards from the table, gazing at Charlie. Charlie sat as though paralyzed. He would ruin everything.

"Mr. Ellerton," she called sharply. Charlie started up, but before he could reach Dora's side, the latter had turned to Mary and was holding out a friendly hand. Mary responded with alacrity.

"Miss Bellairs, isn't it? We ought to know one another. I'm so glad to meet you."

Charlie was by them now.

"And how do you do, Mr. Ellerton?" went on Mary, rivalling Dora in composure. And she also added a barely visible and quite inaudible "Hush!"

"Who are they?" asked Deane in a low voice.

"Their name's Ashforth," answered Laing.

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the General. "I remember him now. We made his acquaintance at Interlaken, but his name had slipped from my memory. And that's his wife? Fine girl, too. I must speak to him." And full of kindly intent he bustled off and shook John warmly by the hand.

"My dear Ashforth, delighted to meet you again, and under such delightful conditions, too! Ah, well, it only comes once in a lifetime, does it?—in your case anyhow, I hope. I see Dora has introduced herself. You must present me. When was it?"

Portions of this address puzzled John considerably, but he thought it best to do as he was told.

"Mary," he said, "let me introduce General Bellairs—Miss Bellairs's father—to you. General Bell—"

The General interrupted him by addressing Mary with much, effusion.

"Delighted to meet you. Ah, you know our young friend Ellerton? Everybody does, it seems to me. Come, you must join us. Waiter, two more places. Lady Deane, let me introduce Mr. Ashforth. They're on their——"

He paused. An inarticulate sound had proceeded from Mary's lips.

"Beg pardon?" said the General.

A pin might have been heard to drop, while Mary, recovering herself, said coldly:

"I think there's some mistake. I'm not Mrs. Ashforth."

"Gad, it's the old 'un!" burst in a stage whisper from Arthur Laing, who seemed determined that John Ashforth should have a wife.

The General looked to his daughter for an explanation. Dora dared not show the emotion pictured on her face, and her back was towards the party. Charlie Ellerton was staring with a vacant look at the lady who was not Mrs. Ashforth. The worst had happened.

John came to the rescue. With an awkward laugh he said:

"Oh, you—you attribute too much happiness to me. This is Miss Travers. I—I—Her aunt, Miss Bussey, and she have kindly allowed me to join their travelling party. Miss Bussey is at that table," and he pointed to "the old 'un."

Perhaps it was as well that at this moment the pent-up feelings which the situation, and above all the remorseful horror with which Laing was regarding his fictitious lady's-maid, overcame Roger Deane. He burst into a laugh. After a moment the General followed heartily. Laing was the next, bettering his examples in his poignant mirth. Sir Roger sprang up.

"Come, Miss Travers," he said, "sit down. Here's the fellow who gave you your new name. Blame him," and he indicated Laing, Then he cried, "General, we must have Miss Bussey, too."

The combined party, however, was not, when fully constituted by the addition of Miss Bussey, a success. Two of its members ate nothing and alternated between gloomy silence and forced gayety; who these were may well be guessed. Mary and John found it difficult to surmount their embarrassment at the contretemps which had attended the introduction, or their perplexity over the cause of it. Laing was on thorns lest his distributions of parts and stations in life should be disclosed. The only bright feature was the congenial feeling which appeared at once to unite Miss Bussey and Sir Roger Deane. They sat together, and, aided by the General's geniality and Lady Deane's supramundane calm, carried the meal to a conclusion without an actual breakdown, ending up with a friendly wrangle over the responsibility for the bill. Finally it was on Sir Roger's proposal that they all agreed to meet at five o'clock and take coffee, or what they would, together at a cafe by the water in the Bois de Boulogne. With this understanding the party broke up.

Dora and Charlie, lagging behind, found themselves alone. They hardly dared to look at one another, lest their composure should fail.

"They're not married," said Charlie.

"No."

"They've broken it off!"

"Yes."

"Because of us."

"Yes."

"While we——"

"Yes."

"Well, in all my life, I never——"

"Oh, do be quiet."

"What an infernal ass that fellow Laing——"

"Do you think they saw anything?"

"No. I half wish they had."

"Oh, Mr. Ellerton, what shall we do? They're still in love with us!"

"Rather. They've been waiting for us."

Dora entered the hotel gates and sank into a chair in the court-yard.

"Well? she asked helplessly; but Charlie had no suggestion to offer.

"How could they?" she broke out indignantly. "How could they break off their marriage at the last moment like that? They—they were as good as married. It's really hardly—people should know their own minds."

She caught sight of a rueful smile on Charlie's face.

"Oh, I know, but it's different," she added impatiently. "One expects it of you, but I didn't expect it of John Ashforth."

"And of yourself?" he asked softly.

"It's all your fault, you wicked boy," she answered.

Charlie sighed heavily.

"We must break it to them," said he. "Mary will understand; she has such delicacy of feeling that——"

"You're always praising that girl. I believe you're in love with her still."

"Well, you as good as told me I wasn't fit to black Ashforth's boots."

"Anyhow he wouldn't have—have—have tried to make a girl care for him when he knew she cared for somebody else."

"Hang it, it seems to me Ashforth isn't exactly immaculate. Why, in Switzerland——"

"Never mind Switzerland, Mr. Ellerton, please."

A silence ensued. Then Charlie remarked, with a reproachful glance at Dora's averted face, "And this is the sequel to Avignon! I shouldn't have thought a girl could change so in forty-eight hours."

Dora said nothing. She held her head very high in the air and looked straight in front of her.

"When you gave me that kiss——" resumed Charlie.

Now this form of expression was undoubtedly ambiguous; to give a kiss may mean: 1. What it literally says—to bestow a kiss. 2. To offer one's self to be kissed. 3. To accept willingly a proffered kiss; and, without much straining of words, 4. Merely to refrain from angry expostulation and a rupture of acquaintance when one is kissed—this last partaking rather of the nature of the ratification of an unauthorized act, and being, in fact, the measure of Dora's criminality. But the other shades of meaning caught her attention.

"You know it's untrue; I never did," she cried angrily. "I told you at the time that no gentleman would have done it."

"Oh, you mean Ashforth, I suppose? It's always Ashforth."

"Well, he wouldn't."

"And some girls I know wouldn't forgive a man on Monday and round on him on Wednesday."

"Oh, you needn't trouble to mention names. I know the paragon you're thinking of!"

They were now at the hotel.

"Going in?" asked Charlie.

"Yes."

"I suppose we shall go to the Bois together?"

"I shall ask papa or Sir Roger to take me."

"Then I'll go with Lady Deane."

"I don't mind who you go with, Mr. Ellerton."

"I'll take care that you're annoyed as little as possible by my presence,"

"It doesn't annoy me."

"Doesn't it, D——?"

"I don't notice it one way or the other."

"Oh."

"Good-by for the present, Mr. Ellerton."

"Good-by, Miss Bellairs; but I ought to thank you."

"What for?"

"For making it easy to me to do what's right," and Charlie turned on his heel and made rapidly for the nearest cafe, where he ordered an absinthe.

Dora went wearily up to her bedroom, and, sitting down, reviewed the recent conversation. She could not make out how, or why, or where they had begun to quarrel. Yet they had certainly not only begun but made very fair progress, considering the time at their disposal. It had all been Charlie's fault. He must be fond of that girl after all; if so, it was not likely that she would let him see that she minded. Let him go to Mary Travers, if—if he liked that sort of prim creature. She, Dora Bellairs, would not interfere. She would have no difficulty in finding someone who did care for her. Poor John! How happy he looked when he saw her! It was quite touching.

He really looked almost—almost. To her sudden annoyance and alarm she found herself finishing the sentence thus, "almost as Charlie did at Avignon."

"Oh, he's worth a thousand of Charlie," she exclaimed, impatiently.

At half-past four Sir Roger Deane was waiting; in the hall. Presently Dora appeared.

"Where are the others?" she asked.

"Charlie's having a drink. Your father and Maud aren't coming. They're going to rest."

"Oh, well, we might start."

"Excuse me, Miss Dora, there's some powder on your nose."

"Oh, is there? Thanks."

"What have you been powdering for?"

"Really, Sir Roger! Besides the sun has ruined my complexion."

"Oh, the sun,"

"Yes. Don't be horrid. Do let's start."

"But Charlie—"

"I hate riding three in a cab."

"Oh, and I like riding alone in one, so——"

"No, no. You must come with me. Mr. Ellerton can follow us. He's always drinking, isn't he? I dislike it so."

Sir Roger, with a wink at an unresponsive plaster bust of M. le President, followed her to the door. They had just got into their little victoria when Charlie appeared, cigarette in hand.

"Charlie," observed Deane, "Miss Bell airs thinks you'll be more comfortable by yourself than perched on this front seat."

"Especially as you're smoking," added Dora. "Allez, cocher."

Charlie hailed another vehicle and got in. As he did so he remarked between his teeth, "I'm d——d if I stand it."



CHAPTER XI

A DYNAMITE OUTRAGE

On one side of the Lake Dora mid John walked together, on the other Mary and Charlie. Miss Bussey and Roger Deane sat in the garden of the cafe. The scene round them was gay. Carriages constantly drove up, discharging daintily attired ladies and their cavaliers. There was a constant stream of bicycles, some of them steered by fair riders in neat bloomer-suits; the road-waterers spread a grateful coolness in their ambit, for the afternoon was hot for the time of year, and the dust had an almost autumnal volume. Miss Bussey had been talking for nearly ten minutes on end, and now she stopped with an exhausted air, and sipped her coffee. Deane lit another cigar and sat silently looking on at the life that passed and repassed before him.

"It's a curious story," he observed at last.

"Very; but I suppose it's all ended happily now. Look at them, Sir Roger."

"Oh, I see them."

"Their troubles are over at last, poor children; and really I think they've all behaved very well. And yet——"

"Yes?"

"I should have thought Mary and Mr. Ashforth so suited to one another. Well, well, the heart's an unaccountable thing—to an old spinster, anyhow."

"You're right, Miss Bussey. Take my wife and me. You wouldn't have thought we should have hit it off, would you? First year I knew her I hardly dared to speak to her—used to mug up Browning and—(Sir Roger here referred to an eminent living writer) and chaps like that, before I went to see her, you know. No use! I bored her to death. At last I chucked it up."

"Well?"

"And I went one day and talked about the Grand National for half an hour by the clock. Well, she asked me to come again next day, and I went, and told her all about the last burlesque and—and so on, you know. And then I asked her to marry me."

"And she said 'Yes'?"

"Not directly. She said there was an impassable gulf between us—an utter want of sympathy in our tastes and an irreconcilable difference of intellectual outlook."

"Dear me! Didn't that discourage you?"

"I said I didn't care a dash; she was the only girl I ever cared for (all right, Miss Bussey, don't laugh), and I'd have any outlook she liked. I said I knew I was an ass, but I thought I knew a pretty girl when I saw one, and I'd go away if she'd show me a prettier one."

"Well?"

"Well, she didn't."

Miss Bussey laughed a little.

"Of course," resumed Sir Roger, "I've got money, you know, and all that, and perhaps——"

"Sir Roger! What a thing to say of your wife!"

"Well, with another girl—but hang it, I don't believe Maud would. Still, you see, it's so dashed queer that sometimes——"

"I'm sure she's very fond of you," said Miss Bussey, rather surprised fit the nature of the confidence which she was receiving.

"I expect it's all right," resumed Deane, more cheerfully, "and that brings us back to where we started, doesn't it?"

"And we started in bewilderment."

"You're puzzled that Dora, Bellairs and Ashforth should pair off together, and——?"

"Well, the other combination would seem more natural, wouldn't it? Doesn't it surprise you a little?"

"I'm never surprised at anything till I know it's true," said Sir Roger.

"What, you——?"

They were interrupted by the return of their friends, and a move was made. Three vehicles were necessary to take them back, for the twos could, obviously, neither be separated from one another nor united with anybody else, and in procession, Miss Bussey and Deane leading, they filed along the avenues back to the Arc de Triomphe.

They had hardly passed the open Place when their progress was suddenly arrested. A crowd spread almost across the broad road, and sergents-de-ville imperiously commanded a halt. There was a babble of tongues, great excitement, and a thousand eager fingers pointing at a house. The doorway was in ruins, and workmen were busy shoring it up with beams. In the middle of the crowd there was an open circle, surrounded by gendarmes, and kept clear of people. In the middle of it lay a thing like a rather tall slim watering-pot, minus the handle. The crowd, standing on tiptoe and peeping over the shoulders of their guardians, shook their fists at this harmless-looking article and apostrophised it with a wonderful wealth of passionate invectives.

"What in the world's the matter?" cried Miss Bussey, who was nervous in a crowd.

"Revolution, I suppose;" responded Deane calmly, mid turning to his nearest neighbor, he continued in the first French that came to him, "Une autre revolution, n'est-ce-pas, Monsieur?"

The man stared, but a woman near him burst into a voluble explanation, from the folds of which unlearned English ears disentangled, at the third reiteration, the ominous word, "Dynamite;" and she pointed to the watering-pot.

"Oh, it'll go off!" shrieked Miss Bussey.

"It's gone off," said Sir Roger. "We're too late," and there was a touch of disappointment in his voice, as he turned and shouted to the others, "Keep your seats! It's all over. Only an explosion."

"Only!" shuddered Miss Bussey. "It's a mercy we weren't killed."

It appeared that this mercy had not stopped at Miss Bussey and her friends. Nobody had been killed—not even the magistrate on the third floor for whose discipline and reformation the occurrence had been arranged; and presently the carriages were allowed to proceed.

Lady Deane's grief at having missed so interesting an occasion was very poignant.

"No, Roger," said she, "it is not a mere craving for horrors, or a morbid love of excitement; I wish I had been there to observe the crowd, because it's just at such moments that people reveal their true selves. The veil is lifted—the veil of hypocrisy and convention—and you see the naked soul."

"You could hear it too, Maud," observed Sir Roger. "Fine chance of improving your French vocabulary. Still, I daresay you're right."

"I'm sure I am."

Deane looked at his wife meditatively.

"You think," he asked, "that being in danger might make people——"

"Reveal their inmost natures and feelings? I'm sure of it."

"Gad! Then we might try."

"What do you mean, Roger?"

"Nothing. You're going out with the General to-night? Very well, I shall take a turn on my own hook."

As he strolled toward the smoking-room, he met Charlie Ellerton.

"Well, old fellow, had a pleasant afternoon?"

"Glorious!" answered Charlie in a husky voice.

"Are we to congratulate you?"

"I—I—well, it's not absolutely settled yet, Deane, but—soon, I hope."

"That's right. Miss Bussey told me the whole story, and I think you're precious lucky to get such a girl."

"Yes, aren't I?"

"You don't look over and above radiant."

"Do you want me to go grinning about the hotel like an infernal hyena?"

"I think a chastened joy would be appropriate."

"Don't be an ass, Deane. I suppose you think you're funny."

Sir Roger passed on, with a smile on his lips. As he passed the reading-room Dora Bellairs came out.

"Well, Miss Dora, enjoyed your afternoon?"

"Oh, awfully—except that dreadful explosion."

"You must excuse a friend, you know. I'm awfully glad it's all come right in the end."

"You—you're very kind, Sir Roger. It's—it's—there's nothing quite settled yet."

"Oh, of course not, but still——! Well, I heard all about it and I think he's worthy of you. I can't say more. He seems a capital fellow."

"Yes, isn't he? I——"

"Yes?"

"Oh, I'm very, very, very happy," and, after making this declaration in a shaky voice, she fairly ran away down the passage. Deane watched her as she went.

"Maud's right," said he. "She always is. There's nothing for it but dynamite. I wonder where it's to be got?"

General Bellairs clapped him on the shoulders.

"Inclined for a turn, Deane? I'm going to see an old servant of mine—Painter's his name. He married my poor wife's French maid, and set up as a restaurant-keeper in the Palais-Royal. I always look him up when I come to Paris."

"I'm your man," answered Deane, and they set out for Mr. Painter's establishment. It proved to be a neat little place, neither of the very cheap nor of the very sumptuous class, and the General was soon promising to bring the whole party to dejeuner there. Painter was profuse in thanks and called Madame to thank the General. The General at once entered into conversation with the trim little woman.

"Nice place yours, Painter," observed Deane.

"Pleased to hear you say so, Sir Roger."

"Very nice. Ah—er—heard of the explosion?"

"Yes, Sir Roger. Abominable thing, sir. These Socialists——"

"Quite so. Never had one here, I suppose?"

"No, sir. We're pretty well looked after in here."

"Like one?" asked Deane.

"Beg pardon, sir. Ha-ha. No, sir."

"Because I want one."

"You—beg pardon, sir?"

"Look here, Painter. I'll drop in here after dinner for some coffee. I want to talk to you. See? Not a word to the General."

"Glad to see you, Sir Roger, but——"

"All right. I'll put you up to it. Here they come. Present me to Madame."

They went away, haying; arranged with the Painters for luncheon and a private room on the next day but one.

"Lunch for eight," said Deane. "At least, General, I thought we might ask our friends from the European."

"Yes—and young Laing."

"Oh, I forgot him. Yes, Laing, of course. For nine—neuf, you know, please, madame."

"That's all right," said the General, "I'm glad to do him a turn."

"Yes, that's all right," assented Sir Roger, with the slightest possible chuckle. "We shall have a jolly lunch, eh, General?"



CHAPTER XII

ANOTHER!

"I shall never, never forgot your generosity, John."

"No, Mary. It was your honesty and courage that did it."

"I told Mr. Ellerton the whole story, and he seemed positively astonished."

"And Miss Bellairs admitted that when she wrote she considered such a tiling utterly impossible. She's changed a little, Mary. She's not so cheerful and light-hearted as she used to be."

"Think what she's gone through. I've noticed just the same in Mr. Ellerton, but—"

"You hope to restore him soon?"

"Oh, well, I expect Miss Bellairs—what a pretty girl she is, John—will soon revive too, now she is with you again. John, have; you observed anything peculiar in Aunt Sarah's manner?"

"To tell you the truth, I fancied she was rather short with me once or twice at dinner."

"I believe she is—isn't pleased at—at what's happened. She hasn't taken much to Mr. Ellerton, and you know she liked you so much, that I think she still wants you as one of the family."

John laughed: then he leant forward and said in a low voice:

"Have you settled anything about dates?"

"No. Mr. Ellerton—well he didn't introduce the subject: so of course I didn't. Have you?"

"No, we haven't. I made some suggestion of the kind, but Miss Bellairs didn't fall in with it. She won't even let me ask her father's consent just yet."

"Mr. Ellerton proposes not to announce our—anything—for a few days."

"Well," said John, "I shall insist on an announcement very shortly, and you ought to do the same, Mary. We know the evils—" He checked himself, but Mary was not embarrassed.

"Of secret engagements?" she said calmly. "We do indeed."

"Besides it's a bore. I couldn't go with Miss Bellairs to the theatre to-night, because she said it would look too marked."

"Yes, and Mr. Ellerton said that if he dined here he might as well announce our engagement from the statue of Strasburg."

John frowned, and Mary perceiving the bent of his thoughts ventured to say, though with a timid air unusual to her:

"I think they're the least little bit inconsiderate, don't you, John—after all we have done for them?"

"Well, I don't mind admitting that I do feel that. I do not consider that Miss Bellairs quite appreciates the effort I have made."

Mary sighed.

"We mustn't expect too much of them, must we?" she asked.

"I suppose not," John conceded; but he still frowned.

When we consider how simple the elements of perfect happiness appear to be, regarded in the abstract, it becomes surprising to think how difficult it is to attain them in the concrete. A kind magician may grant us all we ask, may transport us whither we would go, dower us with all we lack, bring to us one desired companion after another, but something is wrong. We have a toothache, or in spite of our rich curtains there's a draught, or the loved one haps not to be at the moment congenial: and we pitifully pray the wizard to wave his wand again. Would any magician wave his for these four troublesome folk? It must be admitted that they hardly deserved it.

Nevertheless a magician was at work, and, with the expiration of the next night, his train was laid. At eleven o'clock in the forenoon of Friday, Roger Deane had a final interview with the still hesitating Painter.

"But if the police should come, Sir Roger?" urged the fearful man.

"Why, you'll look a fool, that's all. Isn't the figure high enough?"

"Most liberal, Sir Roger, but—but it will alarm my wife."

"If you come to that, it'll alarm my wife."

"Very true, Sir Roger." Painter seemed to derive some comfort from this indirect community of feeling with the aristocracy.

"It'll alarm everybody, I hope. That's what it's for. Now mind—2.30 sharp—and when the coffee's been in ten minutes. Not before! I must have time for coffee."

"Very good, Sir Roger."

"Is the ladder ready?"

"Yes, Sir Roger."

"And the what's-its-name?"

"Quite ready, Sir Roger."

"Let's see it."

It was inspected and pronounced satisfactory. Then Roger Deane set out to return to his hotel, murmuring contentedly:

"If that don't make up their minds for 'em, I don't know what will."

Then he paused suddenly.

"Gad! Will the women have hysterics?" he asked, but in a moment he added, reassuring himself, "Maud never has, and, hang it, we must chance the rest."

Arrived at home he found Arthur Laing kicking his heels in the smoking-room.

"Lunching with you to-day, ain't I, somewhere in the Palais-Royal?" asked the visitor.

"Yes, some place the General's found out. Look here, Laing, are you a nervous man?"

"Nervous! What do you take me for?"

"Lose your head in moments of excitement?"

"I never have 'em."

"Oh, well, hang you! I say, Laing, you're not a fool. Just look here. Anything I say—anything, mind—at lunch today, you're not to contradict. You're to back me up."

"Right you are, old chap."

"And the more infernal nonsense it sounds, the more you're to take your oath about it."

"I'm there."

"And finally, you're on no account to lay a finger either on Miss Travers or on Dora Bellairs."

"Hullo! I'm not in the habit of beating women at any time, let alone at a lunch-party."

"I mean what I say: you're not to touch either of them. If you do you'll spoil it. You're to go for Miss Bussey."

"She's not done me any harm."

"Never mind. As soon as the row begins and I say, 'Save the ladies!' you collar Miss Bussey. See?"

"Oh, I see. Seems to me we're going to have a lively lunch. Am I to carry the old lady?"

"Yes."

"Oh, by Jove! How's my biceps? Just feel, will you?"

Deane felt and gravely pronounced the muscle to be equal to its task. Laing was much gratified, and awaited the unknown future with philosophic patience.

Sir Roger had predicted "a jolly lunch," but, in its early stages, the entertainment hardly earned this description. Something was wrong somewhere; Dora started by refusing, very pointedly, to sit near Charlie Ellerton; and yet, when she found herself between Ashforth and Laing, she was absent, silent, and melancholy. Charlie, on the other hand, painfully practised a labored attentiveness to Mary Travers which contrasted ill with his usual spontaneous and gay courtesy. Miss Bussey wore an air of puzzled gravity, and Laing kept looking at her with a calculating eye. He seemed to be seeking the best grip. Lady Deane and the General, engrossed in a tete-a-tete discussion, did little to promote the hilarity of the table, and it was left to Deane to maintain the flow of conversation as he best could. Apparently he found the task a heavy one, for, before long, he took a newspaper out of his pocket, and, a propos to one of his own remarks, began to read a highly decorated account of the fearful injuries under which the last victim of the last diabolical explosion had been in danger of succumbing. Sir Roger read his gruesome narrative with much emphasis, and as he laid down the paper he observed:

"Well, I hope I'm not more of a coward than most men, but in face of dynamite—ugh!" and he shuddered realistically.

"I should make for the door," said Laing.

"Yes, but in this case the bomb was at the door!"

"Then," said Laing, "I should exit by the window."

"But this poor man." remarked Mary Travers, "stayed to rescue the woman he loved," and her eyes rested for an instant in confident affection on Charlie Ellerton.

"We should all do as much, I trust," said John, glancing at Dora Bellairs.

"I'm sure I hope you won't have to," said Dora, rather ungraciously.

"Think what a convincing test of affection it would be," suggested Deane persuasively. "After that you could never doubt that the man loved you."

"My good Sir Roger," observed Miss Bussey, "it would be common humanity."

"Suppose there were two girls," said Laing, "and you couldn't take 'em both!"

Deane hastily interposed.

"Haven't we had enough of this dreary subject?" he asked, and he frowned slightly at Laing.

"Isn't it about time for coffee?" the General suggested.

Deane looked at his watch.

"What does the time matter, Deane, if we're ready?"

"Not a bit. 2.20. That's all right," and he rang the bell.

Painter came in with the coffee: the little man looked rather pale and nervous, but succeeded in serving the company without upsetting the cups. He came to Deane last.

"Is everything ready?" whispered that gentleman, and receiving a trembling "Yes, sir," he added, "in ten minutes."

"This," he observed out loud, "has been a pleasant gathering—a pleasant end to our outing."

"What? You're going?" asked Miss Bussey.

"Yes: my wife and I cross to England to-morrow."

"I shall go the next day," announced the General, "if Dora is ready."

John threw a glance toward Dora, but she was busy drinking her coffee.

"Well," said Deane, "I hope we may soon meet again, under equally delightful circumstances, in London. At any rate," he added with a laugh, "there we shall be safe from——"

Crash! A loud noise came from the door, as if of some metallic substance thrown against the panels.

"Hullo!" said Laing.

"Oh, somebody tumbled downstairs," said Deane reassuringly. "Don't move, Miss Bussey."

"Oh, but Sir Roger, what is it? What do you think? It didn't sound at all like what you say."

The General laughed.

"Come, Miss Bussey, I don't suppose it's——"

As he spoke the form of Painter appeared at the open window. He was breathless, and shrieked hastily:

"Dynamite, dynamite! Save yourselves! It'll be off in a minute."

"Then I shall be off in half a minute," said Laing.

There was a rush to the door, and Laing, remembering his instructions, joined hastily in it.

"No, no. The bomb's there!" cried Painter, excitedly.

They stood still in horror for ten seconds.

"To the window, to the window, for your lives! Save the ladies!" cried Sir Roger Deane.



CHAPTER XIII

FAITHFUL TO DEATH

The ladies looked at one another. Even in that awful moment, the becoming, the seemly, the dignified had its claims. The window was narrow: the ladder—Mary Travers had gone to look at it—was steep: a little, curious, excited crowd was gathering below. Deane saw their hesitation. He rushed to the door and cautiously opened it. The thing was there! Across the very entrance—that villainous oblong case! And from below came a shriek—it was Madame's voice, and a cry of "Quick! quick!"

"This," said the General firmly (he had been through the Mutiny), "is not a time for punctilio. Excuse me," and he lifted Lady Deane in his stalwart arms and bore her toward the window.

With a distant reminiscence of the ball room, Arthur Laing approached Miss Bussey, murmuring "May I have the—" and with a mighty effort swung the good lady from the ground. She clutched his cravat wildly, crying "Save me!"

Mary Travers was calmness itself. With quiet mien and unfaltering voice, she laid her hand on Charlie's arm and murmured:

"I am ready, Charlie."

At the same moment John Ashforth, the light of heroism in his eye, whispered to Dora, "You must trust yourself implicitly to me."

"Quick, quick!" cried Deane, "or it's all up with you. Quick, Ashforth! Quick, Charlie, quick, man!"

There was one more pause. Mary's hand pressed a little harder. John's arm was advancing towards Dora's waist. Sir Roger looked on with apparent impatience.

"Are you never going?" he called. "Must I——"

Suddenly a loud cry rang out. It came from Miss Bellairs.

"Oh, Charlie, save me, save me!" she cried, and then and there flung herself into his arms.

"My darling!" he whispered loudly, and catching her up made for the window. As they disappeared through it, Deane softly and swiftly opened the door and disappeared in his turn. Mary and John were left alone. Then Mary's composure gave way. Sinking into a chair she cried:

"And I am left! Nobody cares for me. What shall I do?"

In an instant John's strong arm was round her. "I care for you!" he cried, and raising her almost senseless form, he rushed to the window. The ladder was gone!

"Gone!" he shrieked. "Where is it?"

There was no answer. The little crowd had gone too.

"We are lost," he said.

Mary opened her eyes.

"Lost!" she echoed.

"Lost! Abandoned—by those who loved—ah, no, no, Mary. In the hour of danger—then we see the truth!"

Mary's arms clasped him closer.

"Ah, John, John," she said, "we must die together, dear."

John stooped and kissed her.

Suddenly the door was opened and Deane entered. He wore a comically apologetic look, and carried an oblong metal vessel in his right hand.

"Excuse me," he said. "There's been—er—slight but very natural mistake. It wasn't—er—exactly dynamite—it's—er—a preserved-peach tin. That fool Painter——"

"Then we're safe!" cried Mary.

"Yes, thank Heaven," answered Deane fervently.

"Oh, John!" she cried.

Sir Roger, with a smile, retired and closed the door after him.

Downstairs Lady Deane and Miss Bussey, forgetful of their sufferings, were restoring Madame Painter to her senses; Painter was uncorking a bottle of champagne for Arthur Laing; Sir Roger Deane was talking in a low voice and persuasive tones to an imposing representative of the police. "What passed between them is unknown; possibly only words, possibly something else; at any rate, after a time, Deane smiled, the great man smiled responsively, saluted, and disappeared, murmuring something about Anglais, milords, and droles. The precise purport of his reflections could not be distinctly understood by those in the house, for civility made him inarticulate, but when he was safely outside he looked at a piece of crisp paper in his hand, then, with his thumb pointing over his shoulder, he gave an immense shrug, and exclaimed:

"Mais voila, un fou!" and to this day he considers Roger Deane the very type of a maniac.

Mary and John descended. As soon as they appeared Dora jumped up from her seat and ran towards John, crying, "Oh, Mr. Ashforth!"

While Charlie, advancing more timidly to Mary, murmured: "Forgive me, but—"

Mary with a slight bow, John with a lift of his hat, both without a halt or a word, passed through the room, arm-in-arm, and vanished from Mr. Painter's establishment.

Sir Roger had seized on Laing's champagne and was pouring it out. He stopped now, and looked at Dora. A sudden gleam of intelligence glanced from her eyes. Rushing up to him, she whispered, "You did it all? It was all a hoax?"

He nodded.

"And why?"

"Ask Charlie Ellerton," he answered.

"Oh, but Mr. Ashforth and Mary Travers are so angry!"

"With one another?"

"No, with us."

Sir Roger looked her mercilessly full in the face, regardless of her blushes.

"That," he observed with emphasis, "is exactly what you wanted, Miss Bellairs."

Then he turned to the company, holding a full glass in his hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," said he, "some of us have had a narrow escape. Whether we shall be glad of it or sorry hereafter, I don't know—do you, Charlie? But hero's a health to——"

But Dora, glancing apprehensively at the General, whispered, "Not yet!"

"To Dynamite!" said Sir Roger Deane.



POSTSCRIPT

It should be added that a fuller, more graphic, and more sensational account of the outrage in the Palais-Royal than this pen has been capable of inscribing will appear, together with much other curious and enlightening matter, in Lady Deane's next work. The author also takes occasion in that work—and there is little doubt that the subject was suggested by the experiences of some of her friends—to discuss the nature, quality, and duration of the Passion of Love. She concludes—if it be permissible thus far to anticipate the publication of her book—that all True Love is absolutely permanent and indestructible, untried by circumstance and untouched by time; and this opinion is, she says, indorsed by every woman who has ever been in love. Thus fortified, the conclusion seems beyond cavil. If, therefore, any incidents here recorded appear to conflict with it, we must imitate the discretion of Plato and say, either these persons were not Sons of the Gods—that is. True Lovers—or they did not do such things. Unfortunately, however, Lady Deane's proof-sheets were accessible too late to allow of the title of this story being changed. So it must stand—"The Wheel of Love;" but if any lady (men are worse than useless) will save the author's credit by proving that wheels do not go round, he will be very much obliged—and will offer her every facility.



THE LADY OF THE POOL

CHAPTER I

A FIRM BELIEVER

"I see Mr. Vansittart Merceron's at the Court again, mamma."

"Yes, dear. Lady Merceron told me he was coming. She wanted to consult him about Charlie."

"She's always consulting him about Charlie, and it never makes any difference."

Mrs. Bushell looked up from her needlework; her hands were full with needle and stuff, and a couple of pins protruded from her lips. She glanced at her daughter, who stood by the window in the bright blaze of a brilliant sunset, listlessly hitting the blind-cord and its tassel to and fro.

"The poor boy's very young still," mumbled Mrs. Bushell through her pins.

"He's twenty-five last month," returned Millicent. "I know, because there's exactly three years between him and me."

The sinking rays defined Miss Bushell's form with wonderful clearness. She was very tall, and the severe well-cut cloth gown she wore set off the stately lines of her figure. She had a great quantity of fair hair and a handsome face, spoilt somewhat by a slightly excessive breadth across the cheeks; as her height demanded or excused, her hands and feet were not small, though well shaped. Would Time have arrested his march for ever, there would have been small fault to find with Nature's gifts to Miss Bushell; but, as her mother said, Millie was just what she had been at twenty-one; and Mrs. Bushell was now extremely stout. Millie escaped the inference by discrediting her mother's recollection.

The young lady wore her hat, and presently she turned away from the window, remarking:

"I think I shall go for a stroll. I've had no exercise to-day."

Either inclination, or perhaps that threatening possibility from which she strove to avert her eyes, made Millie a devotee of active pursuits. She hunted, she rode, she played lawn-tennis, and, when at the seaside, golf; when all failed, she walked resolutely four or five miles on the high-road, swinging along at a healthy pace, and never pausing save to counsel an old woman or rebuke a truant urchin. On such occasions her manner (for we may not suppose that her physique aided the impression) suggested the benevolent yet stern policeman, and the vicar acknowledged in her an invaluable assistant. By a strange coincidence she seemed to suit the house she lived in—one of those large white square dwelling's, devoid of ornament, yet possessing every substantial merit, and attaining, by virtue of their dimensions and simplicity, an effect of handsomeness denied to many more tricked-out building's. The house satisfied; so did Millie, unless the judge were very critical.

"I shall just walk round by the Pool and back," she added as she opened the door.

"My dear, it's four miles!"

"Well, it's only a little after six, and we don't dine till eight."

Encountering no further opposition than a sigh of admiration—three hundred yards was the limit of pleasure in a walk to her mother—Millie Bushell started on her way, dangling a neat ebony stick in her hand, and setting her feet down with a firm decisive tread. It did not take her long to cover the two miles between her and her destination. Leaving the road, she entered the grounds of the Court and, following a little path which ran steeply down hill, she found herself by the willows and reeds fringing the edge of the Pool. Opposite to her, on the higher bank, some seven or eight feet above the water, rose the temple, a small classical erection, used now, when at all, as a summer-house, but built to commemorate the sad fate of Agatha Merceron. The sun had just sunk, and the Pool looked chill and gloomy; the deep water under the temple was black and still. Millie's robust mind was not prone to superstition, yet she was rather relieved to think that, with the sun only just gone, there was a clear hour before Agatha Merceron would come out of the temple, slowly and fearfully descend the shallow flight of marble steps, and lay herself down in the water to die. That happened every evening, according to the legend, an hour after sunset—every evening, for the last two hundred years, since poor Agatha, bereft and betrayed, had found the Pool kinder than the world, and sunk her sorrow and her shame and her beauty there—such shame and such beauty as had never been before or after in all the generations of the Mercerons.

"What nonsense it all is!" said Millie aloud. "But I'm afraid Charlie is silly enough to believe it."

As she spoke her eye fell on a Canadian canoe, which lay at the foot of the steps. She recognized it as Charlie Merceron's, and, knowing that approach to the temple from the other side was to be gained only by a difficult path through a tangled wood, and that the canoe usually lay under a little shed a few yards from where she stood, she concluded that Charlie was in the temple. There was nothing surprising in that: it was a favorite haunt of his. She raised her voice; and called to him. At first no answer came, and she repeated:

"Charlie! Charlie!"

After a moment of waiting a head was thrust out of a window in the side of the temple—a head in a straw hat.

"Hullo!" said Charlie; Merceron in tones of startled surprise. Then, seeing the visitor, he added: "Oh, it's you, Millie! How did you know I was here?"

"By the canoe, of course."

"Hang the canoe!" muttered Charlie, and his head disappeared. A second later he came out of the doorway and down the steps. Standing on the lowest, he shouted—the Pool was about sixty feet across—"What do you want?"

"How rude you are!" shouted Miss Bushell in reply.

Charlie got into the canoe and began to paddle across. He had just reached the other side, when Millie screamed:

"Look, look, Charlie!" she cried. "The temple!"

"What?"

"I—I saw something white at the window."

Charlie got out of the canoe; hastily.

"What?" he asked again, walking up to Miss Bushell.

"I declare I saw something white at the window. Oh, Charlie! But it's all——"

"Bosh? Of course it is. There's nothing in the temple."

"Well, I thought—I wonder you like to be there."

"Why shouldn't I?"

The mysterious appearance not being repeated, Millie's courage returned.

"I thought you believed in the ghost," she said, smiling.

"So I do, but I don't mind it."

"You've never seen it?"

"Supposing I haven't? That doesn't prove it's not true."

"But you're often here at the time?"

"Never," answered Charlie with emphasis. "I always go away before the time."

"Then you'd better come now. Put the canoe to bed and walk with me."

Charlie Merceron thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled at his companion. He was tall also, and just able to look down on her.

"No," he said, "I'm not going yet."

"How rude—oh, there it is again, Charlie! I saw it! I'm—I'm frightened," and her healthy color paled a trifle, as she laid a hand on Charlie's arm.

"I tell you what," observed Charlie. "If you have fancies of this kind you'd better not come here any more—not in the evening, at all events. You know people who think they're going to see things always do see 'em."

"My heart is positively beating," said Miss Bushell. "I—I don't quite like walking back alone."

"I'll see you as far as the road," Charlie conceded, and with remarkable promptitude he led the way, turning his head over his shoulder to remark:

"Really, if you're so nervous, you oughtn't to come here."

"I never will again—not alone, I mean."

Charlie had breasted the hill with such goodwill that they were already at the road.

"And you're really going back?" she asked.

"Oh, just for a few minutes. I left my book in the temple—I was reading there. She's not due for half an hour yet, you know."

"What—what happens if you see her?"

"Oh, you die," answered Charlie. "Goodnight;" and with a smile and a nod he ran down the hill towards the Pool.

Miss Bushell, cavalierly deserted, made her way home at something more than her usual rate of speed. She had never believed in that nonsense, but there was certainly something white at that window—something white that moved. Under the circumstances, Charlie really might have seen her home, she thought, for the wood-fringed road was gloomy, and dusk coming on apace. Besides, where was the hardship in being her escort?

Doubtless none, Charlie would have answered, unless a man happened to have other fish to fry. The pace at which the canoe crossed the Pool and brought up at its old moorings witnessed that he had no leisure to spend on Miss Bushell. Leaping out, he ran up the stops into the temple, crying in a loud whisper:

"She's gone!"

The temple was empty, and Charlie, looking round in vexation, added:

"So has she, by Jingo!"

He sat down disconsolately on the low marble seat that ran round the little shrine.

There were no signs of the book of which he had spoken to Millie Bushell. There were no signs of anybody whom he could have meant to address. Stay! One sign there was: a long hat-pin lay on the floor. Charlie picked it tip with a sad smile.

"Agatha's," he said to himself.

And yet, as everyone in the neighborhood knew, poor Agatha Merceron went nightly to her phantom death bareheaded and with golden locks tossed by the wind. Moreover, the pin was of modern manufacture; moreover, ghosts do not wear—but there is no need to enter on debatable ground; the pin was utterly modern.

"Now, if uncle Van," mused Charlie, "came here and saw this—!" He carefully put the pin in his breast-pocket, and looked at his watch. It was exactly Agatha Merceron's time; yet Charlie leant back on his cold marble seat, put his hands in his pockets, and gazed up at the ceiling with the happiest possible smile on his face. For one steeped in family legends, worshipping the hapless lady's memory with warm devotion, and reputed a sincere believer in her ghostly wanderings, he awaited her coming with marvellous composure. In point of fact he had forgotten all about her, and there was nothing to prevent her coming, slipping down the steps, and noiselessly into the water, all unnoticed by him. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, the smile played on his lips, his ears were filled with sweet echoes, and his thoughts were far away. Perhaps the dead lady came and passed unseen. That Charlie did not see her was ridiculously slight evidence whereon to damn so ancient and picturesque a legend. He thought the same himself, for that night at dinner—he came in late for dinner—he maintained the credit of the story with fierce conviction against Mr. Vansittart Merceron's scepticism.



CHAPTER II

MISS WALLACE'S FRIEND

In old days the Mercerons had been great folk. They had held the earldom of Langbury and the barony of Warmley. A failure of direct descent in the male line extinguished the earldom; the Lady Agatha was the daughter of the last earl, and would have been Baroness Warmley had she lived. On her death that title passed to her cousin, and continued in that branch till the early days of the present century. Then came another break. The Lord Warmley of that day, a Regency dandy, had a son, but not one who could inherit his honors, and away went the barony to a yet younger branch, where, falling a few years later into female hands, it was merged in a brand-new viscounty, and was now waiting till chance again should restore it to an independent existence. From the Mercerons of the Court it was gone for ever, and the blot on their escutcheon which lost it them was a sore point, from which it behooved visitors and friends to refrain their tongues. The Regent had, indeed, with his well-known good nature, offered a baronetcy to hide the stain; but pride forbade, and the Mercerons now held no titles, save the modest dignity which Charlie's father, made a K.C.B. for services in the North-West Provinces, had left behind him to his widow. But the old house was theirs, and a comfortable remnant of the lands, and the pictures of the extinct earls and barons, down to him whose sins had robbed the line of its surviving rank and left it in a position, from an heraldic point of view, of doubtful respectability. Lady Merceron felt so acutely on the subject that she banished this last nobleman to the smoking-room. There was, considering everything, an appropriateness in that position, and he no longer vexed her eyes as she sat at meat in the dining room. She had purposed a like banishment for Lady Agatha; but here Charlie had interceded, and the unhappy beauty hung still behind his mother's chair and opposite his own. It was just to remember that but for poor Agatha's fault and fate the present branch might never have enjoyed the honors at all; so Charlie urged to Lady Merceron, catching at any excuse for keeping Lady Agatha. Lady Merceron's way of judging pictures may seem peculiar, but the fact is that she lacked what is called the sense of historical perspective: she did not see why our ancestors should be treated so tenderly and allowed, with a charitable reference to the change in manners, forgiveness for what no one to-day could hope to win a pardon. Mr. Vansittart Merceron smiled at his sister-in-law and shrugged his shoulders; but in vain. To the smoking-room went the wicked Lord Warmley, and Lady Agatha was remarkably lucky in that she did not follow him.

Mr. Vansittart, half-brother to the late Sir Victor, and twenty years younger than he, was a short thick-set man, with a smooth round white face, and a way of speaking so deliberate and weighty that it imparted momentousness to nothings and infallibility to nonsense. When he really had something sensible to say, and that was very fairly often, the effect was enormous. He was now forty-four, a widower, well off by his marriage, and a Member of Parliament. Naturally, Lady Merceron relied much, on his advice, especially in what concerned her son; she was hazy about the characters and needs of young men, not knowing how they should be treated or what appealed to them. Amid her haziness, one fact only stood out clear. To deal with a young man, you wanted a man of the world. In this capacity Mr. Vansittart had now been sent for to the Court, the object of his visit being nothing less than the arrangement and satisfactory settlement of Charlie's future.

Mr. Vansittart approached the future through the present and the past. "Yon wasted your time at school, you wasted your time at Oxford, you're wasting your time now," he remarked, when Charlie and he were left alone after dinner.

Charlie was looking at Lady Agatha's picture. "With a sigh he turned to his uncle.

"That's all very well," he said tolerantly, "but what is there for me to do?"

"If you took more interest in country pursuits it might be different. But you don't hunt, you shoot very seldom——"

"And very badly."

"And not at all well, as you admit. You say you won't become a magistrate, you show no interest in politics or—or—social questions. You simply moon about."

Charlie was vividly reminded of a learned judge whom he had once heard pronouncing sentence of death. His uncle's denunciation seemed to lack its appropriate conclusion—that he should be hanged by the neck till he was dead. He was roused to defend himself.

"You're quite wrong, uncle," he said. "I'm working hard. I'm writing a history of the family."

"A history of the family!" groaned Mr. Vansittart. "Who wants one? Who'll read one?"

"From an antiquarian point of view—" began Charlie stoutly.

"Of all ways of wasting time, antiquarianism is perhaps the most futile;" and Mr. Vansittart wiped his mouth with an air of finality.

"Now the Agatha Merceron story," continued Charlie, "is in itself—-"

"Perhaps we'd better finish our talk tomorrow. The ladies will, expect us in the garden."

"All right," said Charlie, with much content. He enjoyed himself more in the garden, for, while Lady Merceron and her brother in law took counsel, he strolled through the moonlit shrubberies with Mrs. Marland, and Mrs. Marland was very sympathetically interested in him and his pursuits. She was a little eager woman, the very antithesis in body and mind to Millie Bushell; she had plenty of brains but very little sense, a good deal of charm but no beauty, and, without any counterbalancing defect at all, a hearty liking for handsome young men. She had also a husband in the City.

"Ghost-hunting again to-night, Mr. Merceron?" she asked, glancing up at Charlie, who was puffing happily at a cigar.

"Yes," he answered, "I'm very regular."

"And did you see anyone?

"I saw Millie Bushell."

"Miss Bushell's hardly ghost-like, is she?"

"We'll," said Charlie meditatively, "I suppose if one was fat oneself one's ghost would be fat, wouldn't it?"

Mrs. Marland, letting the problem alone, laughed softly.

"Poor Miss Bushell! If she heard you say that! Or if Lady Merceron heard you!"

"It would hardly surprise my mother to hear that I thought Millie Bushell plump. She is plump, you know;" and Charlie's eyes expressed a candid homage to truth.

"Oh, I know what's being arranged for you."

"So do I."

"And you'll do it. Oh, you think you won't, but you will. Men always end by doing what they're told."

"Does Mr. Marland?"

"He begins by it," laughed his wife.

"Is that why he's not coming till Saturday week?"

"Mr. Merceron! But what was Miss Bushell doing at the Pool? Did she come to find you?"

"Oh, no; just for a walk."

"Poor girl!"

"Why—it's good for her."

"I didn't mean the walk,"

"I'd blush if there was light enough to make it any use, Mrs. Marland."

"Oh, but I know there's something. You don't go there every evening to look for a dead lady, Mr. Merceron."

Charlie stopped short, and took his cigar from his mouth.

"What?" he asked, a little abruptly.

"Well, I shall follow you some day, and I shouldn't be surprised if I met—not Agatha—but——"

"Well?" asked Charlie, with an uncertain smile.

"Why, poor Miss Bushell!"

Charlie laughed and replaced his cigar.

"What are we standing still for?" he said.

"I don't know. You stopped. She'd be such an ideal match for you."

"Then I should never have done for you, Mrs. Marland."

"My dear boy, I was married when you were still in Eton collars."

They had completed the circuit of the garden, and now approached where Lady Merceron sat, enveloped in a shawl.

"Charlie!" she called. "Here's a letter from Victor Button. He's coming to-morrow."

"I didn't know you'd asked him," said Charlie, with no sign of pleasure at the news. Victor had been at school and college with Charlie, and often, in his holidays, at the Court, for he was Sir Victor's godson. Yet Charlie did not love him. For the rest, he was very rich, and was understood to cut something of a figure in London society.

"Mr. Sutton? Oh, I know him," exclaimed Mrs. Marland. "He's charming!"

"Then you shall entertain him," said Charlie. "I resign him."

"I can't think why you're not more pleased to have him here, Charlie," remarked Lady Merceron. "He's very popular in London, isn't he, Vansittart?"

"I've met him at some very good houses," answered Mr. Vansittart. And that, he seemed to imply, is better than mere popularity.

"The Bushells were delighted with him last time he was here," continued Lady Merceron.

"There! A rival for you!" Mrs. Marland whispered.

Charlie laughed cheerfully. Sutton would be no rival of his, he thought; and if he and Millie liked one another, by all means let them take one another. A month before he would hardly have dismissed the question in so summary a fashion, for the habit of regarding Millie as a possibility and her readiness as a fact had grown strong by the custom of years, and, far as he was from a passion, he might not have enjoyed seeing her allegiance transferred to Victor Sutton. Certainly he would have suffered defeat from that hand with very bad grace. Now, however, everything was changed.

"Vansittart," said Lady Merceron, "Charlie and I want to consult you (she often coupled Charlie's hypothetical desire for advice with her own actual one in appeals to Mr. Vansittart) about Mr. Prime's rent."

"Oh, at the old farm?"

"Yes. He wants another reduction."

"He'll want to be paid for staying there next."

"Well, poor man, he's had to take lodgers this summer—a thing he's never done before. Charlie, did you know that?"

"Yes," said Charlie, interrupting an animated conversation which he had started with Mrs. Marland.

"Do you know who they are?" pursued his mother, wandering from Mr. Prime's rent to the more interesting subject of his lodgers.

"Ladies from London," answered Charlie.

"Rather vague," commented Mr. Vansittart. "Young ladies or old ladies, Charlie?"

"Why does he want to know?" asked Mrs. Marland; but chaff had about as much effect on Mr. Vansittart as it would have on an ironclad. He seemed not to hear, and awaited an answer with a bland smile. In truth, he thought Mrs. Marland a silly woman.

"Young, I believe," answered Charlie, in a careless tone.

"It's curious I've not seen them about," said Lady Merceron. "I pass the farm almost every day. Who are they, Charlie?"

"One's a Miss Wallace. She's engaged to Willie Prime."

"To Willie? Fancy!"

"H'm! I think," remarked Mr. Vansittart, "that, from the point of view of a reduction of rent, these lodgers are a delusion. Of course she stays with Prime if she's going to many his son."

"Fancy Willie!" reiterated Lady Merceron. "Surely he can't afford to marry? He's in a bank, you know, Vansittart, and he only gets a hundred and twenty pounds a year."

"One blessing of the country is that everybody knows his neighbor's income," observed Mr. Vansittart.

"Perhaps the lady has money," suggested Mrs. Marland. "But, Mr. Merceron, who's the other lady?"

"A friend of Miss Wallace's, I believe. I don't know her name."

"Oh, they're merely friends of Prime's?" Mr. Vansittart concluded. "If that's all he bases his claim for a reduction on—-"

"Hang it! He might as well have it," interrupted Charlie. "He talks to me about it for half an hour every time we meet."

"But, my dear Charlie, you have more time than money to waste—at least, so it seems."

His uncle's sarcasm never affected Charlie's temper.

"I'll turn him on to you, uncle," he replied, "and you can see how you like it."

"I'll go and call on him tomorrow. You'd better come too, Charlie."

"And then you can see the ladies from London," added Mrs. Marland. "Perhaps the one who isn't young Mr. Prime's will be interesting."

"Or," said Charlie, "as mostly happens in this woeful world, the one who is."

"I think the less we see of that sort of person at all, the better," observed Lady Merceron, with gentle decision. "They can hardly be quite what we're accustomed to."

"That sort of person!"

Charlie went to bed with the phrase ringing in his horror-struck ears. If to be the most beautiful, the most charming, and the most refined, the daintiest, the wittiest and prettiest, the kindest and the sweetest, the merriest and most provoking creature in the whole world—if to be all this were yet not to weigh against being 'that sort of person'—if it were not, indeed, to outweigh, banish, and obliterate everything else why, the world was not fit to live in, and he no true Merceron! For the Merceron men had always pleased themselves.



CHAPTER III

ALL NONSENSE

On the evening of the next day, while the sun was still on the Pool, and its waters, forgetful of darker moods and bygone tragedies, smiled under the tickling of darting golden gleams, a girl sat on the broad lowest step of the temple. She had rolled the sleeves of her white gown above her elbow, up well-nigh to her shoulder, and, the afternoon being sultry, from time to time dipped her arms in the water and, taking them out again, amused herself by watching the bright drops race down to her rosy fingertips. The sport was good, apparently, for she laughed and flung back her head so that the stray locks of hair might not spoil her sight of it. On either side of this lowest step there was a margin of smooth level grass, and, being unable as she sat to bathe both arms at once, presently she moved on to the grass and lay down, sinking her elbows in the pond and leaning her face over the edge of it. The posture had another advantage she had not thought of, and she laughed again when she saw her own eyes twinkling at her from the depths. As she lay there a longing came upon her.

"If I could be sure he wouldn't come I'd dip my feet," she murmured.

As, however, he had come every evening for a fortnight past the fancy was not to be indulged, and she consoled herself by a deeper dive yet of her arms and by drooping her head till her nose and the extreme fringe of her eyelashes were wetted, and the stray locks floated on either side.

Presently, as she still looked, she saw another shadow on the water, and exchanged with her image a confidential glance.

"You again?" she asked.

The other shadow nodded.

"Why didn't you come in the canoe?"

"Because people see it."

It struck her that her attitude was unconventional, and by a lithe complicated movement, whereof Charlie noticed only the elegance and not the details, she swept round and, sitting, looked up at him.

"I know who she was," she observed.

"She very nearly knew who you were. You oughtn't to have come to the window."

"She thought I was the ghost."

"You shouldn't reckon on people being foolish."

"Shouldn't I? Yet I reckoned on your coming—or there'd have been some more of me in the water."

"I wish I were an irregular man," said Charlie.

She was slowly turning down her sleeves, and, ignoring his remark, said, with a question in her tones:

"Nettie Wallace says that Willie Prime says that everybody says that you're going to marry that girl."

"I believe it's quite true."

"Oh!" and she looked across the Pool.

"True that everybody says so," added Charlie. "Why do you turn down your sleeves?"

"How funny I must have looked, sprawling on the bank like that!" she remarked.

"Awful!" said Charlie, sitting down.

She looked at him with uneasiness in her eye.

"Nothing but an ankle, I swear," he answered.

She blushed and smiled.

"I think you should whistle, or something, as you come."

"Not I," said Charlie, with decision.

Suddenly she turned to him with a serious face, or one that tried to be serious.

"Why do you come?" she asked.

"Why do I eat?" he returned.

"And yet you were angry the first time."

"Nobody likes to be caught ranting out poetry especially his own."

"I believe you were frightened—you thought I was Agatha. The poetry was about her, wasn't it?"

"It's not at all a bad poem," observed Charlie.

"You remember I liked it so much that I clapped my hands."

"And I jumped!"

The girl laughed.

"Ah, well," she said, "it's time to go home."

"Oh, dear, no," said Charlie!

"But I've promised to be early, because Willie Prime's coming, and I'm to be introduced to him."

"Willie Prime can wait. He's got Miss Wallace to comfort him, and I've got nobody to comfort me."

"Oh, yes. Miss Bushell."

"You know her name?"

"Yes—and yours—your surname, I mean; you told me the other."

"That's more than you've done for me."

"I told you my name was Agatha."

"Ah, but that was a joke. I'd been talking about Agatha Merceron."

"Very well. I'm sorry it doesn't satisfy you. If you won't believe me—!"

"But your surname?"

"Oh, mine? Why, mine's Brown."

"Brown!" re-echoed Charlie, with a tinge of disappointment in his tone.

"Don't you like it?" asked Miss Agatha Brown with a smile.

"Oh, it will do for the present," laughed Charlie.

"Well, I don't mean to keep it all my life. I've spent to-day, Mr. Merceron, in spying out your house. Nettie Wallace and I ventured quite near. It's very pretty."

"Rather dilapidated, I'm afraid."

"What's the time, Mr. Merceron?"

"Half-past six. Oh, by Jove!"

"Well? Afraid of seeing poor Agatha?"

"I should see nobody but you, if you were here. No. I forgot that. I've got to meet someone at the station at a quarter-past seven."

"Oh, do tell me who?"

"You'd be none the wiser. It's a Mr. Victor Sutton."

"Victor Sutton!" she exclaimed, with a glance at Charlie which passed unnoticed by him. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"I suppose so. Of my family's, anyhow."

"Good-by. I'm going," she announced.

"You'll be here to-morrow?"

"Yes. For the last time."

She dropped this astounding thunderbolt on Charlie's head as though it had been the most ordinary remark in the world.

"The last time! Oh, Miss—-" No: somehow he could not lay his tongue to that "Miss Brown."

"I can't spend all my life in Lang Marsh," said she.

"Agatha," he burst out.

"No, no. This is not the last time. Sha'n't we keep that?" she asked, with a provokingly light-hearted smile.

"You promise to be here to-morrow?"

"Oh, yes."

"I shall have something to say to you then," Charlie announced with a significant air.

"Oh, you never lack conversation."

"You'll be here at five?"

"Precisely," she answered with mock gravity; "and now I'm gone!"

Charlie took off his straw hat, stretched out his right hand, and took hers. For a moment she drew back, but he looked very handsome and gallant as he bowed his head down to her hand, and she checked the movement.

"Oh, well!" she murmured; she was protesting against any importance being attached to the incident.

Charlie, having paid his homage, walked, or rather ran, swiftly away. To begin with, he had none too much time if he was to meet Victor Sutton; secondly, he was full of a big resolve, and that generally makes a man walk fast.

The lady pursued a more leisurely progress. Swinging her hat in her hand, she made her way through the tangled wood back to the high-road, and turned towards Mr. Prime's farm. She went slowly along, thinking perhaps of the attractive young fellow she had left behind her, wondering perhaps why she had promised to meet him again. She did not know why, for there was sure to happen at that last meeting the one thing which she did not, she supposed, wish to happen. However, a promise is a promise. She heard the sound of wheels behind her, and, turning, found the farmer's spring-cart hard on her heels. The farmer was driving, and by his side sat a nice-looking girl dressed in the extreme of fashion. On the back seat was a young man in a very light suit, with a fine check pattern, and a new pair of brown leather shoes. The cart pulled up.

"We can make room for ye, Miss," said old Mr. Prime.

Nettie Wallace jumped tip and stood with her foot on the step. Willie Prime jumped down and effected her transfer to the back seat. Agatha climbed up beside the farmer and stretched her hand back to greet Willie. Willie took it rather timidly. He did not quite 'savvy' (as he expressed it to himself); his fiancee's friend was very simply attired, infinitely more simply than Nettie herself. Nettie had told him that her friend was 'off and on'(a vague and rather obscure qualification of the statement) in the same line as herself—namely, Court and high-class dressmaking. Yet there was a difference between Nettie and her friend.

"Anybody else arrived by the train?" asked Agatha.

"A visitor for the Court. A good-looking gentleman, wasn't he, Willie?"

Nettie was an elegant creature and, but for the 'gentleman' and that slight but ineradicable twang that clings like Nessus' shirt to the cockney, all effort and all education notwithstanding (it will even last three generations, and is audible, perhaps, now and then in the House of Lords), her speech was correct and even dainty in its prim nicety.

"Ah!" said Agatha.

"His name's Sutton," said Willie; "Mr. Charles—young Mr. Merceron—told me so when he was talking to me on the platform."

"You know young Mr. Merceron?" asked Agatha.

"Why, they was boys together," interrupted the old farmer, who made little of the refinements of speech. In his youth no one, from the lord to the laborer, spoke grammar in the country. "Used to larn to swim together in the Pool, didn't you, Willie?"

"I must have a dip there to-morrow," cried Willie; and Agatha wondered what time he would choose. "And I'll take you there, Nettie. Ever been yet?"

"No. They—they say it's haunted, don't they, Willie?"

"That's nonsense," said Willie. London makes a man sceptical. The old farmer shook his head and grunted doubtfully. His mother had seen poor Agatha Merceron; this was before the farmer was born—a little while before—and the shock had come nigh to being most serious to him. The whole countryside knew it.

"Why do you call it nonsense, Mr. Prime?" asked Agatha.

"Oh, I don't know, Miss—-"

"Miss Brown, Willie," said Nettie.

"Miss Brown. Anyway, we needn't go the time the ghost comes."

"I should certainly avoid that," laughed Agatha.

"We'll go in the morning, Nettie, and I'll have my swim in the evening."

Agatha frowned. It would be particularly inconvenient if Willie Prime took his swim in the evening.

"Oh, don't, Willie," cried Nettie. "She—she might do you some harm."

Willie was hard to persuade. He was not above liking to appear a daredevil; and the discussion was still raging when they reached the farm. The two girls went upstairs to the little rooms which they occupied. Agatha turned into hers, and Nettie Wallace followed her.

"Your Willie is very nice," said Agatha, sitting on her bed.

Nettie smiled with pleasure.

"And now that you've other company I shall go."

"You're going, Miss?"

"Not Miss."

Nettie laughed.

"I forget sometimes," she said.

"Well, you must remember just over tomorrow. I shall go next day. I must meet my grandfather in London."

Nettie offered no opposition. On the contrary, she appeared rather relieved.

"Nettie, did you like Mr. Sutton's looks?" asked Agatha after a pause.

"He's too black and blue for my taste," answered Nettie.

Willie Prime was red and yellow.

"Blue? Oh: you mean his cheeks?"

"Yes. But he's a handsome gentleman all the same; and you should have seen his luggage! Such a dressing-bag—cost fifty pounds, I daresay."

"Oh, dear, me," said Agatha, "Yes, Nettie, I shall go the day after to-morrow."

"Mr. Merceron asked to be introduced to me," said Nettie proudly. "And he asked where you were—he said he'd seen you at the window."

"Did he?" said Agatha negligently; and Nettie, finding the conversation flag, retired to her own room.

Agatha sat a moment longer on the bed.

"What a very deceitful young man," she exclaimed at last. "I must be a very strict secret indeed. Well, I suppose I should be."



CHAPTER IV

A CATASTROPHE AT THE POOL

Mr. Vansittart Merceron was not quite sure that Victor Sutton had any business to call him "Merceron." He was nearly twenty years older than Victor, and a man of considerable position; nor was he, as some middle-aged men are, flattered by the implication of contemporaneousness carried by the mode of address. But it is hard to give a hint to a man who has no inkling that there is room for one; and when Mr. Vansittart addressed Victor as 'Mr. Sutton' the latter graciously told him to "hang the Mister." Reciprocity was inevitable, and the elder man asked himself, with a sardonic grin, how soon he would be "Van."

"Coming to bathe, Merceron?" he heard under his window at eight o'clock the next morning. "We're off to the Pool."

Mr. Vansittart shouted an emphatic negative, and the two young fellows started off by themselves. Charlie's manner was affected by the ceremonious courtesy which a well-bred host betrays towards a guest not very well-beloved, but Victor did not notice this. It seldom occurred to him that people did not like him.

"Yes," he was saying, "I'm just twenty-nine. I've had my fling, Charlie, and now I shall get to business."

Charlie was relieved to find that according to this reckoning he had several more years 'fling' before him.

"Next year," pursued Victor, "I shall marry; then I shall go into Parliament, and then I shall go ahead."

"I didn't know you were engaged."

"No, I'm not, but I'm going to be. I can please myself, you see; I've got lots of coin."

"Oh, yes, but can you please the lady?" asked Charlie.

"My dear boy," began Victor, "when you've seen a little more of the world——

"Here we are," said Charlie. "Why, hullo! Who's that?"

A dripping head and a blowing mouth were visible in the middle of the Pool.

"Willie Prime by Jove! 'Morning Willie;" and Charlie set about flinging off his flannels, Victor following his example in a more leisurely fashion.

Willie Prime was a little puzzled to know how he ought to treat Charlie. 'Charlie' he had been in very old days—then Master Charlie (that was Willie's mother's doing)—then Mr. Charles. But now Willie had set up for himself. He had played billiards with a lord, and football against the Sybarites, and, incidentally, hobnobbed with quite great people. It is not very easy to assert a social position when one has nothing on, and only one's head out of water, but Willie did it.

"Good-morning—er—Merceron," said he.

Victor heard him, and put up his eyeglass in amazement; but he, in his turn, had only a shirt on, and the hauteur was a failure. Charlie utterly failed to notice the incident.

"Is it cold?" he shouted.

"Beastly," answered Willie. The man who has got in always tells the man who is going to get in that it is "beastly cold."

"Here goes!" cried Charlie; and a minute later he was treading water by Willie's side.

"Miss Wallace all fit?" he asked.

"Thank you, yes, she's all right."

"And her friend?"

"All right, I believe."

"And when is it to be, old fellow?"

"Soon as I get a rise."

"What?" asked the unsophisticated Charlie, who knew the phrase chiefly in connection with fish.

"A rise of screw, you know."

"Oh, ah, yes—what a fool I am!" and Charlie disappeared beneath the waves.

When they were all on the bank, drying, Willie, encouraged by not being discouraged (save by Sutton's silence) in his advances, ventured further, and asked in a joking tone:

"And aren't you marked off yet? We've been expecting to hear of it for the last twelve months."

"What do you mean'?"

"Why, you and Miss Bushell."

Charlie struggled through his shirt, and then answered, with his first touch of distance:

"Nothing in it. People've got no business to gossip."

"It's damned impertinent," observed Victor Sutton in slow and deliberate tones.

Willie flushed.

"I beg pardon," he said gruffly. "I only repeated what I heard."

"My dear fellow, no harm's done," cried Charlie. "Who was the fool?"

"Well—in fact—my father."

The situation was awkward, but they wisely eluded it by laughter. But a thought struck Charlie.

"I say, did your father state it as a fact?"

"Oh no; but as a certainty, you know."

"When?"

"Last night at supper."

Charlie's brow clouded. Miss B—that is, Agatha, was certain to have been at supper. However, all that could be put right in the evening—that one blessed evening left to him. He looked at Willie and opened his mouth to speak; but he shut it again. It did not seem to him that he could question Willie Prime about the lady. She had chosen to tell him nothing, and her will was his law. But he was yearning to know what she was and how she came there. He refrained; and this time virtue really had a reward beyond itself, for Willie would blithely have told him that she was a dressmaker (he called Nettie, however, the manager of a Court modiste's business), and that would not have pleased Charlie.

It was all very well for Charlie to count on that blessed evening; but he reckoned without his host—or rather without his guests.

The Bushells came to lunch, Millie driving her terrified mother in a lofty gig; and at lunch Millie recounted her vision of Agatha Merceron. She did not believe it, of course; but it was queer, wasn't it? Victor Sutton rose to the bait at once.

"We'll investigate it," he cried. "Merceron," (he meant the patient Mr. Vansittart), "didn't yon once write an article on 'Apparitions' for Intellect?"

"Yes, I proved there were none," answered Mr. Vansittart.

"That's impossible, you know," remarked Mrs. Marland gently.

"We'll put you to the proof this very evening," declared Mr. Sutton.

Charlie started.

"Are you game, Miss Bushell?" continued Victor.

"Ye—yes, if you'll keep quite near me, answered Millie, with a playful shudder. Charlie reflected how ill playfulness became her, and frowned. But Millie was pleased to see him frown; she enjoyed showing him that other men liked to keep quite near to her.

"Then this evening we'll go in a body to the Pool."

"I shall not go," shuddered Mrs. Marland.

"An hour after sunset!"

"Half an hour. She might be early—and we'll stay half an hour after. We'll give her a fair show."

"Come," thought Charlie. "I shall get an hour with Agatha."

"You'll come, Charlie?" asked Victor.

"Oh, all right," he answered, hiding all signs of vexation. He could get back by six and join the party. But why was Mrs. Marland looking at him?

The first step, however, towards getting back is to get there, and Charlie found this none so easy. After lunch came lawn-tennis, and he was impressed. Mr. Vansittart played a middle-aged game, and Victor had found little leisure for this modest sport among his more ambitious amusements. Charlie had to balance Millie Bushell, and he spent a very hot and wearying afternoon. They would go on: Victor declared it was good for him, Uncle Van delighted in a hard game (it appeared to be a very hard game to him from the number of strokes he missed), and Millie grew in vigor, ubiquity, and (it must be added) intensity of color as the hours wore away. It was close on five before Charlie, with a groan, could throw down his racquet.

"Poor boy!" said Mrs. Marland.

"Charlie, dear," called Lady Merceron, who had been talking comfortably to Mrs. Bushell in the shade, "come and hand the tea. I'm sure you must all want some. Millie, my dear, how hot you look!"

"She never will take any care of her complexion, complained Mrs. Bushell.

"Take care of your stom—your health—and your complexion will take care of itself," observed Mr. Vansittart.

"Charlie! Where; is the boy?" called Lady Merceron again.

The boy was gone. He was flying as fast as his legs would take him to the Pool. Where was that cherished interview now? He could hope only for a few wretched minutes—hardly enough to say good-by once—before he must hustle—yes, positively hustle—Agatha out of sight. He had heard that abominable Sutton remark that they might as well start directly after tea.

He was breathless when he burst through the willows. But there he came to a sudden, a dead stop, and then drew back into shelter again. There on the bank, scarcely a dozen feet from it, sat two people—a. young man with his arm round a young woman's waist. Willie Prime and Nettie Wallace, "by all that's damnable!" as Sir Peter says! Charlie said something quite as forcible.

He felt for his watch, but he had left it with his waistcoat on the lawn. What was the time? Was it going quickly or slowly? Could he afford to wait, or must he run round to the road and intercept Agatha? Five minutes passed in vacillation.

"I'll go and stop her," he said, and began a cautious retreat. As he moved he heard Willie's voice.

"Well, my dear, let's be off," said Willie.

Nettie rose with a sigh of content, adjusted her hat coquettishly, and smoothed her skirts.

"I'm ready, Willie. It's been beautiful, hasn't it?"

They came towards Charlie. Evidently they intended to regain the road by the same path as he had chosen. Indeed, from that side of the Pool there was no choice, unless one clambered round by the muddy bank.

"We must make haste," said Willie. "Father'll want his tea."

If they made haste they would be close on his heels. Charlie shrank back behind a willow and let them go by; then, quick as thought, rushed to his canoe and paddled across—up the steps and into the temple he rushed. She wasn't there! Fate is too hard for the best of us sometimes. Charlie sat down and, stretching out his legs, stared gloomily at his toes.

Thus he must have sat nearly ten minutes, when a head was put round the Corinthian pilaster of the doorway.

"Poor boy! Am I very late?"

Charlie leapt up and forward, breathlessly blurting out joy tempered by uneasiness.

Agatha gathered the difficulty of the position.

"Well," said she, smiling, "I must disappear, and you must go back to your friends."

"No," said Charlie. "I must talk to you."

"But they may come any moment."

"I don't care!"

"Oh, but I do. Charlie, what's the matter? Oh, didn't I ever call you 'Charlie' before? Well, Charlie, if you love me (yes, I know!) you'll not let these people see me."

"All right! Come along. I'll take you to the road and come back. Hullo! What's that?"

"It's them!" exclaimed the lady.

It was. The pair dived back into the temple. On the opposite bank stood Millie Bushell, Mr. Vansittart, and Victor Sutton.

"Hullo, there, Charlie, you thief!" cried Victor. "Bring that canoe over here. Miss Bushell wants to get to the temple."

"Hush! Don't move!" whispered Agatha.

"But they know I'm here; they see that confounded canoe."

"Charlie! Charlie!" was shouted across in three voices.

"What the devil—," muttered Charlie.

"They mustn't see me," urged Agatha.

Victor Sutton's voice rose clear and distinct,

"I'll unearth him!" he cried. "I know the way round. You wait here with Miss Bushell, Merceron."

"Oh, he's coming round!"

"I must chance it," said Charlie, and he came out of hiding. A cry greeted him. Victor was already started, but stopped. Charlie embarked and shot across.

"You villain! You gave us the slip," cried Uncle Van.

Miss Bushell began quietly to embark. Uncle Van followed her example.

"Oh, Mr. Merceron, you'll sink us!" cried Millie.

Charlie sat glum and silent. The situation beat him completely.

Uncle Van drew back. Millie seized the paddle and propelled the canoe out from the bank.

"You come round with me, Merceron," called Sutton, and the two men turned to the path. "No," added Victor. "Look here, we can climb round here," and he pointed to the bank. There was a little narrow muddy track, but it was enough.

The canoe was half-way across; the two men—Victor leading at a good pace—were half-way round. Charlie glanced at the window of the temple and caught a fleeting glance of a despairing face. "If you love me, they mustn't see me!"

"Here, give me the paddle!" he exclaimed, and reached forward for it.

"No, I can do it," answered Millie, lifting the instrument out of his reach.

Charlie stepped forward—rather, he jumped forward, as a man jumps over a ditch. There was a shriek from Millie; the canoe swayed, tottered, and upset. In a confused mass, Millie Bushell and Charlie were hurled into the water. Victor and Uncle Van, hardly five yards from the steps, turned in amazement.

"Help! help!" screamed Millie.

"Help!" echoed Charlie. "I can't hold her up. Victor, come and help me! Uncle Van, come along!"

"The devil!" murmured Uncle Van,

"Quick, quick!" called Charlie; and Victor, with a vexed laugh, peeled off his coat and jumped in. Mr. Vansittart stood with a puzzled air. Then a happy thought struck him. He turned and trotted back the way he had come. He would get a rope!

As he went, as Victor reached the stragglers in the water, a slim figure in white, with a smile on her face, stole cautiously from the temple and disappeared in the wood behind. Charlie saw her go, but he held poor Millie's head remorselessly tight towards the other bank.

And that was the last he saw of the Lady of the Pool.

Millie Bushell landed, her dripping clothes clinging round her. Victor was shivering, for the evening had turned chilly. Uncle Van had a bit of rope from the boat-shed in his hand, and a doubtful smile on his face.

"We'd best get Miss Bushel home," he suggested, and they started in gloomy procession. Charlie, in remorse, gave Millie his arm.

"Oh, how could you?" she murmured piteously. She was cold, she was wet, and she was sure that she looked frightful.

I—I didn't do it on purpose, "Charlie blurted out eagerly.

"On purpose! Well, I suppose not," she exclaimed, bewildered. Charlie flushed. Victor shot a swift glance at him.