"What was there about me, rather?" said Mark, looking rather shamefaced. "Bridget, I can only tell you I am immensely sorry."

"Suppose," she cried, "that Carrissima had seen you! Suppose she had not dropped her flowers! What would be the use of saying you were sorry then? She has always been horridly jealous——"

"Carrissima jealous!"

"From the first time she came here! I suppose it began that evening you took me to Belloni's and kept her waiting for dinner. She would never have forgiven you. Mark, you have had a very, very narrow escape, and I am not certain you deserve to get off so easily. Because, don't you see, your treatment of me was the worse on account of your love for her."

He stood with a dejected expression on his face, and nothing more was said, for a few moments; then Bridget lightly rested a hand on his sleeve.

"Ah, well," she said, "I don't want to pile up the agony. Besides," she added, with an obvious effort, "I must be honest. I—I know I have given you reason to think meanly of me—vilely! But, don't you see, Mark, I—I have done with all that. I was never so anxious to make the best of myself. Not that it can conceivably matter."

Mark left the house in a chastened mood, wondering as he walked towards Burnham Crescent whether it were possible that she had fallen sincerely in love with Jimmy Clynesworth.

Was it likely that, after all her alarums and excursions, she had found a resting-place at last; that Carrissima was right when she insisted that Jimmy had ousted Colonel Faversham, but wrong when she imagined that Bridget's inducement was his larger income?

"I'm sorry to be so late," said Mark, when at last he entered Carrissima's presence that evening.

"Oh, it isn't too late," she answered. "My father is out, and I am thankful for any one to relieve the monotony of things."

"The fact is," Mark explained, "I have a serious case near here. I was kept rather longer than I anticipated. My third visit to-day!"

"You must be making a rapid fortune," she cried gaily.

"Anyhow, it's a beginning," he said, adding, after a momentary pause, "I thought you might be surprised to see me at Golfney Place this afternoon."

"No, I don't know that I was," returned Carrissima. "Just a wee bit, perhaps; but then, you know, one ought never to feel astonished to meet a doctor anywhere."

"Oh well, Bridget's not a patient," said Mark, with a smile. "I was on my way home from Sir Wilford's, when I saw her in a motor-car just by the corner of Golfney Place. She insisted that I should go in with her, and because of her importunity I consented."

"Has the carpet arrived yet?" asked Carrissima.

"It was laid while I was out this afternoon," was the answer.

"Well, I hope you approve of my taste."

"It looks first-rate," said Mark. "The room is transformed. I have some idea of putting up my fees on the strength of it. I should like you to come and have a look," he added.

"Why, of course," returned Carrissima. "I must ask Phoebe to bring me one afternoon, and you shall give us some more of those delicious cakes."

Mark Driver was certainly living in a fool's paradise that evening. He did not imagine for an instant that he should ever hear of the escapade again. The incident was ended. Carrissima remained in blissful ignorance, and he had made his peace with Bridget.

Bliss, however, was far from Carrissima that night. For one thing, she blamed herself severely for having opened her heart to Sybil Clynesworth. Although it seemed obvious that Mark had been playing an equivocal game, there could, Carrissima felt certain on reflection, be no justification for the innuendoes which she had allowed herself to make. The truth was that even now she scarcely knew what she had said in her wrath. She remembered that odious ideas had flashed unbidden across her mind—ideas which now appeared as unworthy of herself as of Mark.

Still, after making every allowance, her disillusioning remained complete. How could a man feel an interest in the precise colour of her own eyes one day and kiss the lips of another woman the next? She knew that her wish had been father to the thought, and she felt exceedingly bitter against Miss Bridget Rosser, who appeared still to have three men dangling at her heels.

One of these was becoming impatient. Colonel Faversham had reached the end of his tether. He realized that his authority over Bridget would not bear a great strain, and accordingly on Wednesday morning he made his way to Donaldson's, where he purchased a handsome and expensive jewelled waist-belt, such as she had admired on an actress when he took her to the play a few evenings ago. Armed with this peace-offering, Colonel Faversham reached Golfney Place at eleven o'clock on the morning after Mark Driver's unfortunate visit.



CHAPTER XIX

AN APPOINTMENT

"Oh dear!" cried Bridget, as she clasped the belt round her waist, "how kind you always are to me!"

"I don't see why you should sigh about that," answered Colonel Faversham. "I mean to be kind to you as long as I live, and I hope that will be a good many years yet. But there's nothing like tit for tat, you know, Bridget. Come, now, my darling, I want you to be kind to me."

"If only you could see into my mind you would say I was a perfect little wretch!" she murmured, taking off the belt and laying it on a table.

"Just as well we can't do that sort of thing," said the colonel. "I never care for women who are too good for human nature's daily food. You don't mind if I light a cigar," he added, sitting down with caution.

"Oh dear, no," she returned, and going to the mantelshelf, brought a box of matches, one of which she struck, holding it to the end of his cigar. When he had lighted it, he captured her wrist with elephantine playfulness.

"Bridget," he exclaimed, as she laughingly freed herself, "suppose we cut the cackle and get to the bosses. I think I've been patient long enough."

"I have never imagined that patience was your strong point," said Bridget.

"Well, well, too much of it makes a man look like a fool," was the answer, "and besides, to tell the truth, I'm devilish impatient. Who could look at you and be anything else? What's the use of wasting time in this way? I could fix things up in a week, and never a word to Lawrence or Carrissima till we're safely out of England. Come now, when shall we get married?"

For a few moments, while Colonel Faversham sat smoking, she did not answer. She was standing a few yards away, with her fingers interlocked. Her breath came and went quickly and her face had lost all its colour.

"It's no use," she suddenly exclaimed. "I can't tell you."

"Why not—why not?" demanded Colonel Faversham. "Good gracious, my little pet isn't frightened of me!"

"I think I am," she faltered.

"What is there to be frightened about?"

"You have always been so kind—I am going to treat you so horridly——"

"No, you're not," he said. "You're going to make me the dearest little wife in the world. Come, now, Bridget?"

He was too fatuously enamoured to dream that she could be struggling for strength to dismiss him. Her obvious timidity was ascribed to natural maidenly bashfulness, which made her appear wonderfully enticing. She clasped her hands more tightly together and turned her head this way and that, glancing at the windows, at the door, as if she longed to run away and make her escape from the man whose chief desire in life was to keep her always by his side.

He saw her moisten her lips and raise her hands for a moment to her forehead.

"I can't say it," she cried. "I suppose I am too great a coward. You—you shall know to-morrow!"

"You will fix the day for certain!" said Colonel Faversham eagerly.

"You shall know to-morrow," she repeated.

"Now, that," he exclaimed, rising from his chair, "is a promise!"

"A solemn promise," murmured Bridget; and a few minutes later Colonel Faversham went away, strutting along the street with his chest puffed out, walking on air, and certainly never doubting that Bridget's promise would be fulfilled. At the end of Golfney Place his expression changed as he saw Jimmy Clynesworth—on his way to No. 5, no doubt! Well, let Jimmy make the most of his opportunities. He would not find very many more! Another week or two and Bridget would be whisked away from England to return as Mrs. Faversham.

"Some one," remarked Jimmy, as he entered Bridget's sitting-room, "has been smoking a decent cigar!"

"Colonel Faversham," replied Bridget.

"His visit doesn't seem to have bucked you up," said Jimmy, with his eyes on her face, as he held her hand. "I despise the man who can't interfere with what doesn't concern him on occasion! I have been wondering lately whether you can possibly be in any kind of hobble. Bridget, I should immensely like to help you out."

This was intended to be the prelude to a formal proposal of marriage. After keeping silence with difficulty so long, Jimmy considered that the time had at last come when he might put his fate to the touch. Nor was he tormented by any very serious doubts concerning her surrender. Jimmy had seen enough to feel blissfully satisfied that Bridget loved him, and for his own part, he had never met any other woman whom he desired to marry.

"Jimmy!" she murmured, looking up at him wistfully.

"Bridget," he said, in an equally low and solemn voice.

"You see—the fact is—I am engaged to Colonel Faversham!"

Although he suddenly released her hand, she still remained in the same attitude, watching his face as if waiting to see the effect of her announcement.

He drew in a deep breath and thrust his clenched hands into his jacket pockets.

"Then I ought to felicitate you," said Jimmy. "Why," he asked quietly, "didn't you give me the opportunity earlier?"

"Colonel Faversham didn't wish anybody to be told," she answered.

"You are consequently not gratifying him by telling me now!"

"No," said Bridget.

"Why have you told me?" he demanded.

"Oh well," she replied, "I felt that I wanted you to know—that is the only reason."

"Should you mind telling me something else?" said Jimmy.

"Anything—anything!"

"Did the—the auspicious event take place before or since that afternoon we first met in Grandison Square?"

"A few days before."

"I am sorry you kept me in the dark," was the answer.

"So am I," she said.

He took one hand out of his pocket and ran his fingers through his hair.

"You see," he remarked, "I have known the colonel nearly my whole life. Well, good-bye," he added, holding out his hand.

"Oh—good-bye," said Bridget, and Jimmy was on his way down-stairs the next moment, out of the house and losing no time in finding his way back to Upper Grosvenor Street. Going at once to the smoking-room, he sat down, and leaning forward, covered his face with his hands. In this dejected attitude Sybil found him a few minutes later. As he had obviously not observed her entrance, she went to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"My dearest Jimmy," she explained, "whatever is the matter?"

Rising from his chair, he walked to the mantelshelf, took a cigarette from a box and lighted it.

"I may as well get it off my chest," he said. "I went to ask Bridget to marry me."

"Oh—Jimmy!" was the reproachful answer.

"You needn't bother yourself," he explained. "She took the wind out of my sails by the announcement that she was affianced to old Faversham before I saw her face."

"To Colonel Faversham!" cried Sybil. "Poor Carrissima!"

Sybil, it is true, had too much experience to be actually astonished at such enormity, but nevertheless she was deeply shocked. Why, Miss Rosser was engaged to be married to the colonel at the time when she had been seen in Mark Driver's arms.

"Understand," said Jimmy, "Carrissima is not to be told. No one knows but the two concerned and myself. I was never so sorely tempted in my life."

"Tempted!" exclaimed Sybil.

"To play the part of Young Lochinvar, you know. She would have gone with me!" he added excitedly. "She would have gone with me!"

"My dear," returned his sister, "you could surely never dream of acting so dishonourably. Such an old friend as Colonel Faversham, too!"

"Oh yes, I dreamed of it," said Jimmy. "You know they say we're all no better than we should be in our dreams. My difficulty was that I woke too soon!"



CHAPTER XX

IN SIGHT OF PORT

"Good-morning, Carrissima!" said Colonel Faversham on Thursday morning, rubbing his palms briskly together as he entered the dining-room. "It looks as if there's going to be a change in the weather. A little rain will do good."

"Will it?" answered Carrissima, perfunctorily.

"What's the matter?" he demanded. "You're not eating anything. Always have a good breakfast. Lay a foundation for the day. Look at me! When my appetite fails, I shall begin to think it's time I gave in."

He made an enormous breakfast, and when at last it ended, took out his cigar-case. Having lighted a cigar, he carried the newspaper to his smoking-room and sat down, only to get up again the next minute. He did not care a scrap about the news! The Socialists might upset the constitution for all Colonel Faversham minded this morning! His thoughts already outran him to Golfney Place, where he fully expected to hear from Bridget's lips that she should be prepared to marry him within a week or a fortnight at the latest.

How enchantingly coy the dear girl had been yesterday! Taking down a Continental Bradshaw from one of the bookshelves, he looked up the route to Milan. She had chosen Rome, Naples and Capri for the honeymoon, and of course she should have her own way! Unable to control his impatience after half-past ten, Colonel Faversham went to his dressing-room, limping up-stairs as no one was looking, and imparted a more militant twirl to his moustache. When he reached the hall again Knight held his thin overcoat and handed his top-hat, gloves and malacca cane.

Seeing a taxi-cab Colonel Faversham hailed it, so that he reached Golfney Place earlier than ever before. As he rang the bell he could scarcely control his muscles. He coughed so violently that one or two people looked back at him in passing. He shifted the position of his hat so often as he waited for Miller to open the door, that he might have been making a series of automatic bows to imaginary acquaintances. He stamped his feet and felt that his necktie was in the middle of his shirt front, and then he rang a second time.

"Good heavens!" he muttered, "why can't the man come! Why can't he let me in!"

Miller opened the door at last, in the act of thrusting one arm into his coat. By the time Colonel Faversham had crossed the threshold the butler had assumed his usual deferential stoop and his manner was as suave as ever.

"Good-morning, Miller," said Colonel Faversham, pacified the instant he obtained admittance. "I am rather early. Miss Rosser?"

"Miss Rosser is not here, colonel," was the astounding answer.

"Not here! Good gracious! What do you mean?"

"Miss Rosser left the house at half-past three yesterday afternoon, colonel."

"Do you mean to tell me she has not returned?" demanded Colonel Faversham.

"No," said Miller.

"But I have an appointment with her this morning!"

"I understand that Miss Rosser is not coming back, colonel," answered Miller.

Colonel Faversham was ceasing to look entirely bewildered. He grew exceedingly red in the face; his eyes appeared to be starting out of his head. Horrible thoughts occurred to him. He glared at Miller as if he were responsible for Bridget's departure, and with miserable sensations he began to put a new interpretation upon the coyness which he had found so seductive yesterday morning.

"Miss Rosser," said Miller, "left a letter for you."

"Why on earth couldn't you tell me so at once!" demanded Colonel Faversham.

"And a parcel," said Miller.

"Where are they? Where are they?" exclaimed the colonel; and Miller went to the rear of the hall, returning the next moment with a fair-sized, brown-paper parcel in his hand. It obviously contained the crocodile-hide dressing-bag, which had been Bridget's birthday present; the handle, indeed, projected for convenience of transport.

"Would you like to step into the dining-room, colonel?" suggested Miller, giving him a square envelope.

"Damn the dining-room!" shouted Colonel Faversham, as with trembling fingers he broke the seal, whilst Miller still held the bag. Colonel Faversham did not wait to fix his eye-glass.

"DEAR COLONEL FAVERSHAM" (he read),

"How sorry I am to give you pain, and I know that I am doing so. I cannot possibly marry you, and I have not the courage to say so to your face. Why didn't you understand how hard I tried to tell you this morning—you really might have helped me out! You have always been so very kind. I positively hate to treat you badly. I have put all your presents inside the dressing-bag. Please try to forgive me, although I don't suppose you ever will! If it is any consolation to you, I feel—oh, so miserable!

"Yours sincerely,

"BRIDGET ROSSER."

Although the contents of the letter were easy enough to master, Colonel Faversham must needs fix his monocle, in order to read it again. "That infernal Jimmy!" he muttered, then folded the sheet of paper and bestowed it in his breast pocket.

"The parcel, colonel," suggested Miller, as he turned towards the door.

For a moment Colonel Faversham stood scowling at the butler and what he held in his hand. His first impulse was to refuse to have anything to do with it; but, after all, its contents were of considerable value. He might, perhaps, leave it at his club, although it could not remain there for ever, and perhaps it would be better to take it at once to Grandison Square and lock it up in the smoking-room cupboard.

At last he put out his hand, and came forth to the doorstep holding the crocodile-hide bag.

"Good-morning, colonel!" said Miller, but although his tone was even more suave and respectful than usual, Colonel Faversham fancied he detected in it something ironic. No doubt the man had formed his own opinion as to what was going on; but, thank goodness, nobody outside Number 5, Golfney Place had the faintest suspicion of his engagement!

He quite understood that this was broken beyond repair. Colonel Faversham knew when he was beaten. He had been treated in the most abominable manner, and he never desired to see Bridget's face again. Unaccustomed to carry a parcel through the streets, he was annoyed inasmuch as he could not see any kind of cab until he drew near to his own house, and unfortunately Carrissima happened to be looking out at the dining-room window.

She could not, however, see his face, and as he had left home in such ebullient spirits a little while ago, she went to meet him in the hall, where her eyes at once fell upon the bag.

"What is that?" she asked brightly. "A present for little Victor?"

"No," exclaimed the colonel, mimicking her voice, "it isn't a present for little Victor! What in the world should I be doing with a present for little Victor at this hour of the day?"

She naturally perceived that something must have occurred seriously to ruffle him, even if he had not slammed the door of the smoking-room so violently behind him. It did not take Carrissima long to draw her own conclusions. It is true she was ignorant of her father's engagement to Bridget, but she had anticipated his deposition by Jimmy Clynesworth, until Mark's conduct had complicated the outlook. On the whole, Carrissima was inclined to think that the climax had been reached this morning; that Colonel Faversham, having gone to Golfney Place, had quarrelled with Bridget, who had insisted on returning such presents as he had from time to time given to her.

While Colonel Faversham remained hidden in his smoking-room, Carrissima's mind was busy with his affairs, until about three-quarters of an hour later she happened to be crossing the hall, and saw Jimmy on the doorstep in conversation with Knight.

"Oh, Jimmy!" she exclaimed, "do come in!"

Without any hesitation he entered the hall, accompanying her up-stairs to the drawing-room.

"I don't know whether you have heard the news," he said, as he shut the door.

"Not a word!" was the answer. "I am positively dying to hear it."

A smile broke over Jimmy's face.

"Bridget has left Golfney Place!" he cried.

"When did she go?" asked Carrissima.

"At half-past three yesterday afternoon."

"Has she sought refuge where she ought to have sought it long ago?"

"Where is that?" demanded Jimmy.

"With her aunts at Sandbay!"

"By the bye," he said, "can you tell me their name?"

"Now—let me see!" answered Carrissima, reflecting for an instant. "Oh yes—Dobson. I feel certain that is right. It sounds quite ordinary, doesn't it?"

Jimmy Clynesworth had gone to bed the previous night, but not to sleep very early, with the fixed determination to stand clear of Bridget for the future. He felt, indeed, too distrustful of himself to re-approach her and yet remain loyal to his old friend Colonel Faversham.

When, however, he went into his own den to smoke an after-breakfast pipe, the first thing his eyes rested upon was a copy of one of David Rosser's novels. It obviously ought to be returned! He knew that Bridget valued her complete collection of her father's works. Of course nothing would have been easier than to send it by his man, or, for that matter, by the parcel post.

But Jimmy determined to take back the book in person; he would not enter the house, he would leave it at the door and just ask Miller how Bridget was this morning! At the back of his mind probably was some subconscious, unrecognized desire to seize any chance of seeing her once more if only for a moment, but on reaching the house he heard a repetition of the story with which Miller had overwhelmed Colonel Faversham.

For the instant Jimmy also was almost overwhelmed, but by vastly different sensations. He had no suspicion that Bridget intended to break off her engagement until the moment when Miller told him of the colonel's recent visit. Then Jimmy reached the truth by a leap. Bridget had gone away to escape from her elderly fiance! At the time Jimmy believed that her announcement yesterday morning was prompted by a sense of duty—a little belated, no doubt.

She saw how it was with him, but having already plighted her troth she felt compelled to issue that unexpected warning. Now, however, Jimmy saw her conduct in another light. She had made up her mind to have done with Colonel Faversham at all costs! Lacking the courage to tell him so to his face, she had opened her heart to the man whom she loved and on whose love she counted.

From Bridget's point of view, Jimmy saw that he had failed her at the pinch. Still, she had acted for herself, not, perhaps, in the most desirable manner! Still, she must have made her bid for freedom, and now it came to the point, this seemed to be all that Jimmy cared about. It is true he had spoken to Bridget of his high regard for candour, but even that by no means equalled his regard for herself.

Whatever she had done, and Jimmy perceived that she must have treated Colonel Faversham less than well, this was not the time for criticism. The salient fact was that she had shaken herself free! Such a desirable end appeared to excuse almost any means. Bridget's disappearance did not in the least alarm him. There would be little difficulty in finding her again; the point was that he had become justified in undertaking the search.

Having thanked and tipped Miller, Jimmy set about the quest at once, and determined to take the bull by the horns. He would go to Grandison Square in the first place, see Colonel Faversham, and ascertain beyond a doubt that the coast was clear. Colonel Faversham, too, or Carrissima might perchance be able to suggest some clue to Bridget's hiding-place.



CHAPTER XXI

JIMMY SETS TO WORK

"Is Colonel Faversham at home?" asked Jimmy.

"Do you wish to see him!" said Carrissima.

"Well, yes," was the answer, "I do—rather particularly."

"Because he is not in the very best mood for a visitor," said Carrissima. "At the present moment he is shut up in his smoking-room. I give you a fair warning, Jimmy!"

"I think I shall have to risk it," he returned.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Carrissima. "How tremendously curious you make me! Although I'm entirely in the dark, I feel certain that important events are happening. You see, Jimmy, my father is constantly at Golfney Place—so are you! This morning he came home unusually early—actually with a large parcel in his hand. He had a face like ever so many thunder-clouds. Do you think there has been any sort of—of disagreement between Bridget and the colonel?"

"Why, yes," said Jimmy, "I fancy you've hit the mark!"

"I wish you wouldn't be so dreadfully mysterious," she answered. "Now, why can't you tell me what it is all about?"

He could not see his way to gratify her. Bridget had insisted that the engagement had remained a secret at Colonel Faversham's wish, and Jimmy had no wish to make things unpleasant for him at home. He had told Sybil, it was true, but probably he would not even have enlightened his sister if he had taken time for reflection.

"Do you think," asked Jimmy, instead of replying to Carrissima's question, "that Bridget would be likely to go abroad again?"

"Jimmy," she answered seriously, "wherever she may have gone, you will be wise to take my advice."

"What is that?"

"To make no attempt to follow her!"

Jimmy laughed at this, and reminded Carrissima of his wish to speak to Colonel Faversham. Somewhat reluctantly she accompanied him down-stairs again, and opened the door of the smoking-room, taking the precaution to make as much noise as possible with the handle.

Colonel Faversham looked the embodiment of dejection, when at last, followed by Jimmy, she entered his room. He was sitting in an easy-chair, leaning forward with his hands to his head. All his usual exuberance appeared to have left him; he looked quite old and feeble. Seeing Jimmy, he scowled fiercely, making no attempt to rise or to offer his hand.

"Good-morning, colonel," said the visitor cheerfully. "Sorry if I am disturbing you, but I wanted a few words, if you can spare a minute."

"A broad hint for me to go," cried Carrissima, backing towards the door, with the most painful curiosity.

"Well, what is it?" demanded Colonel Faversham, as soon as he was alone with Jimmy.

"I am going to ask you a straight question!" was the answer. "I have heard of your engagement——"

"Who the devil told you?" exclaimed Colonel Faversham, sitting suddenly erect.

"Well, you know," said Jimmy, "I imagine there was only one person who had it in her power to tell me."

"Bridget, you mean?"

"Yes," replied Jimmy.

"When was that?"

"Just after you left her yesterday morning."

Rising from his chair, Colonel Faversham seemed to pull himself together. He blew out his cheeks, put back his shoulders and fixed his eyeglass as if he wished to examine Jimmy more distinctly.

"I should like to know," he said, "what my engagement has to do with you!"

"Nothing in the world," returned Jimmy, "if it still exists. That is all I am anxious to hear—whether it does or not."

Colonel Faversham stood glaring into Jimmy's face. So it was true, as he had suspected, that he had been thrown over for the benefit of this confounded fellow, who had the audacity to catechize him! Well, the battle was to the young! Colonel Faversham set it down to that. He must be growing old, hang it all! and here was Jimmy Clynesworth, whom he had nursed as a small boy, civil enough, as far as that went, but probably laughing in his sleeve, as those who win may.

"Jimmy," said the colonel, with a chastened and rather pathetic air, "I tell you what it is. I've been infernally badly treated. No use to mince matters. I've been jilted, sir. Jilted!"

"I suppose I may gather from that," suggested Jimmy, striving to keep anything resembling elation from his voice, "that, as far as you're concerned, Bridget is free——"

"Free!" cried Colonel Faversham. "Any woman can easily be free who attaches no value to her most solemn vows. Free! Good gracious! How can a man bind such a wench?"

"Thank you," said Jimmy, turning towards the door, "that's all I wanted to hear!"

His position did not appear very enviable, because while he could not tolerate any abuse of Bridget, to tell the truth it was impossible to say a word in her defence.

"One minute—one minute, Jimmy!" cried Colonel Faversham. "The more I think of it, the more extraordinary this visit of yours seems! As a boy you always had plenty of cheek! Between ourselves! You seem to know a good deal. I hope to goodness you haven't blabbed to Carrissima!"

"About your engagement, do you mean?"

"Yes, yes," said the colonel impatiently.

"I haven't said a word. In fact, she has not the remotest idea of anything of the kind."

"Well, that's a blessing," was the answer, and Jimmy went away, getting out of the house without seeing Carrissima again. The moment he reached Upper Grosvenor Street he inquired for Sybil, and being told she was in her own room, mounted the stairs several treads at a time.

"May I come in?" he asked, tapping at her door.

"Whatever is the matter now, Jimmy?" exclaimed Sybil, throwing it open.

"Well, it has been a wonderful morning," he explained. "I have got a free hand. Bridget has thrown old Faversham over."

"My dear," said Sybil, "how extremely barefaced!"

"I have seen him," Jimmy continued. "There is nothing on earth in my way. All I have to do is to find her, and that won't take many days."

While he stood outside Sybil's bedroom door, explaining how he had heard the news of Bridget's departure from Golfney Place, his sister underwent the sorest temptation of her life. Surely no situation could be more tantalizing. If it were not for the solemn promise she had made to Carrissima, how easy it would prove to keep Jimmy from the pursuit which might end in his ruin!

Although he remained so strangely uninfluenced by the knowledge of Bridget's engagement to Colonel Faversham, her simultaneous intrigue with Mark Driver could scarcely fail to bring Jimmy to his senses. For the present, however, Sybil tried to hope that there might be more difficulty in running his quarry to earth than he anticipated. She might indeed be hiding somewhere perplexingly close at hand; and most likely Mark held the clue!

Jimmy lost no time in setting to work in earnest. In the first place, he inserted advertisements in the halfpenny evening papers and such of their morning contemporaries as made a special feature of betting news. These he thought would be most in favour amongst taxi-cab drivers, and, of course, the important thing was to discover the man who had driven "a lady and her luggage from No. 5, Golfney Place" that fateful afternoon.

Not content with this, Jimmy motored to Sandbay, and stopping at a stationer's shop, succeeded in purchasing a local Directory. In this he found the name of "Dobson, the Misses," who lived at No. 8, Downside Road. The house was named "Fairbank." Thither Jimmy drove at once, and few thoroughfares could have had a more sedately retired appearance. A wide, gravelled roadway, smoothly rolled, with red-brick villas all precisely alike on one side, and yellow-brick villas, equally uniform, on the other.

There must have been fewer than the average number of children in the neighbourhood, and these must have been unusually silent and well conducted. Such dogs as there were always went out with a lead, and often wearing neat little home-made coats, with a leather strap instead of a collar.

On almost every gate a metal label was affixed: "No hawkers or street musicians." In the most sedate of the red-brick villas with the neatest front garden, lived the Misses Dobson. If any one ever ventured to speak of them in their hearing as the "Miss Dobsons" he was certain to be corrected. In truth, "The Misses Dobson" seemed to describe them far more accurately.

The difference between their ages was only eighteen months, and casual observers assumed that they were twins. They invariably dressed alike, in a fashion which had become out of date in London several years before. They never went out separately, and in order that the same ideas should penetrate their minds at the same moment, one of the pair read aloud while the other sewed and listened.

Well-to-do in the world, they were exceedingly kind to the poor, and they had never succeeded in grasping Bridget's reasons for refusing to accept their hospitality. This afternoon they were sitting together in their superlatively neat drawing-room, and Miss Dobson was knitting while Miss Frances was reading a novel from the circulating library. In the middle of chapter four they were astonished to hear the unwonted sound of a motor-car, and when the sentence was finished they both rose and walked to the window.

There stood a large red car, with a chauffeur in dark-grey livery with a light-brown fur rug round his knees. Before their astonishment permitted the remark that some one must have stopped at the wrong house, the door opened and the most demure parlour-maid in England stood nervously holding the handle.

"A gentleman in a motor-car," said Selina.

"I think," answered Miss Dobson, "that he must have made a mistake in the number."

"He asked for Miss Dobson," said Selina. "Not knowing the name, I left him in the hall."

"Quite right," returned Miss Frances.

"Name o' Clynesworth," said Selina.

"Perhaps," suggested Miss Dobson, "he wishes to sell something."

"A motor-car!" remarked Miss Frances.

"I suppose we ought to receive him," said her sister, and accordingly Jimmy was conducted to the drawing-room, where he at once began to make an almost abject apology.

"My only excuse," he concluded, "is that I have the honour to call myself a friend of Miss Rosser's."

"Our dearest niece," murmured Miss Dobson.

"You may know," said Jimmy, who had scarcely ever felt quite so nervous in his life, "that Bridget has been living at No. 5, Golfney Place!"

"Extremely unsuitable on all accounts," answered Miss Dobson.

"Extremely," said Miss Frances.

"As she left her rooms the day before yesterday," Jimmy explained, "I thought it possible she might have come to you."

"We sincerely wish she had," said Miss Dobson.

"Sincerely," said Miss Frances.

"You may think it is rather strange that I should be pursuing Bridget in this way," suggested Jimmy.

"We do," said Miss Dobson.

"My object," continued Jimmy, "is to ask her to marry me!"

"Will you kindly take a chair," cried Miss Dobson, and they all looked about as if to make certain there was nothing in the way, and then sat down. "The present," Miss Dobson added, "may not be the most suitable occasion to inquire concerning your eligibility. My niece is a sweet girl."

"I entirely agree with you," said Jimmy.

"A little impulsive, it may be," said Miss Dobson.

"Perhaps, a little," murmured Miss Frances.

"But exceedingly good to her father after our poor sister's death."

"Very, very good," said Miss Frances, and both sisters blinked their eyes as Jimmy rose to say "good-bye." He was, however, not to make his escape just yet. The Misses Dobson were obviously disturbed in mind. They could not tolerate the idea of Bridget's whereabouts remaining unknown, and all Jimmy's coolness and assurance were required to restore them to anything resembling tranquillity.

He left the house with a feeling that the scent of lavender must be still clinging to his clothes, and the next morning found him at Crowborough. There, however, he could obtain no news of Bridget, and now he began to wonder whether it was probable she had gone to Paris, where she had lived with David Rosser during the last years of his life. It was on Monday morning that Sybil saw Jimmy in the act of parting from a stranger at the door.

"Who was your visitor?" she inquired, having waited in the dining-room for the purpose.

"A man named Winchester—a private detective," said Jimmy.

"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Sybil, "how sincerely I wish you would let Miss Rosser go her own way!"

"Haven't I succeeded yet," demanded Jimmy, "in making you understand that her way will always be mine?"

"And yet you know how horridly she treated poor Colonel Faversham, Jimmy. You have always insisted on truth and honesty before anything——"

"Now I only insist," said Jimmy, "that Bridget shall become my wife."

At this Sybil grew reckless.

"Jimmy," she cried, "it is really quite impossible."

"Why?" he demanded.

"My dear, I scarcely like to say the words, but she knew Mark Driver long before she knew you."

"Well, I hope she will see a good deal of old Mark in the future also," answered Jimmy. "You force me to break my word," said Sybil, with considerable emotion. "Carrissima will never forgive me. I am sure she won't. But I really cannot keep silence while you go to destruction. I really can't. I promised I would never breathe a syllable——"

"Would you mind," urged Jimmy, "breathing it quickly!"

"There has been an—an understanding between Miss Rosser and Mark from the very first," said Sybil.

"Oh, you mustn't talk foolishness," returned Jimmy.

"Carrissima saw them——"

"What in the world did she see?"

"She happened to go to Golfney Place unexpectedly the afternoon before Miss Rosser left," Sybil explained. "She saw the girl in—in Mark's arms. Jimmy, he was kissing her; actually kissing her, and all the time she must have been engaged to Colonel Faversham."

"Nonsense," said Jimmy; "I don't believe a word of it."

"Do you imagine that Carrissima could possibly tell me an untruth?" demanded Sybil. "She was half beside herself when I met her, or she would never have said a word."

"Now," suggested Jimmy, "you have hit the explanation. Carrissima was beside herself. Of course," he added, "I shall clear the matter up, but I tell you, to begin with, I don't believe a word of it."

"How Carrissima managed to carry it off," said Sybil, "seems wonderful to me."

"A wonderful story altogether," returned Jimmy.

"Neither Mark nor—nor his companion had the slightest idea they were discovered," said Sybil.

"Oh, then Carrissima didn't tackle the fellow!"

"How could she?" asked Sybil. "You see, she had no actual right to complain! Mark Driver, I dare say, would consider himself free to—to kiss any woman he pleased."

"Anyhow," said Jimmy, with all the assurance in the world, "he didn't kiss Bridget."

"Oh, how can you be so blind!" exclaimed his sister.

"When other people see so much," he answered, "what can be more desirable?"

"Well," said Sybil, with tears in her eyes, "I have told you what Carrissima saw, and naturally she drew her own conclusions."

"What were they?" asked Jimmy, thrusting his hands deep in his jacket pockets.

"You are bound," Sybil explained, "to take into consideration what had gone before. Only a few hours earlier Mark told Carrissima that he hadn't seen Miss Rosser for some weeks. He said he never wished to see her again. Then in face of that, Carrissima went to Golfney Place, and there was the woman in his arms."

"Well," cried Jimmy, "we shall hear what Mark has to say about it."

"My dear," said Sybil nervously, "I do hope and trust you won't get me into trouble. I should never have uttered a word if it were not for your good."

"Any one would imagine," was the answer, "that I had been wrapped in cotton-wool all my life. I suppose I should have been if you could have managed it. Well, I am off to Weymouth Street at once," added Jimmy.



CHAPTER XXII

INCRIMINATING HIMSELF

Carrissima felt compelled to go to Charteris Street. She could not resist the temptation of telling Lawrence this latest news about their father and Bridget, whose departure from Golfney Place made him quite genial.

"The best thing I've heard for a long time," he exclaimed. "Let us hope we've all seen the last of her."

Lawrence found points of interest in the situation. If, as Carrissima insisted, Colonel Faversham had been in the habit of making Bridget frequent presents, and had now received them back, surely matters must have advanced farther than anybody believed. There was something formal about such a restitution, and perhaps they had even more than they knew to feel thankful for.

He took Phoebe to Grandison Square after dinner on Sunday evening in order to observe for himself the change in Colonel Faversham's demeanour, at which Carrissima had hinted. Certainly the colonel had not much to say even concerning the progress of the Parliament Bill through the House of Commons, and presently Lawrence skilfully introduced Bridget's name.

"By the bye," he asked, turning to Carrissima, "you haven't discovered Miss Rosser's address yet?"

"I haven't tried," was the answer, as Colonel Faversham's cough became troublesome.

"You ought to get Mark to give you something for it," suggested Lawrence, and the colonel was explaining that it was merely a tickling in his throat, when, opportunely, Mark Driver entered the room.

During his hospital days, he would often look in at Grandison Square on Sunday evenings, and just now he felt a greater longing for Carrissima's society than ever in his life before, as one may pine for a cooling draught on the morning following a night's carouse.

"Ah!" exclaimed Lawrence, "here's the man who may be able to enlighten us."

"What about?" asked Mark, as he shook hands with one after another.

"The bird that's flown," said Lawrence, with a laugh.

"Who's that?"

"Bridget," Carrissima explained, "has gone away from Golfney Place."

"And left no address!" cried her brother.

Carrissima, having now recovered her usual common-sense, did not for a moment imagine that Mark's astonishment was counterfeited. She felt certain that his inquiries were perfectly sincere, bewildered as she still remained whenever she thought of his conduct that afternoon of disillusion.

She had dropped back into the habit which had prevailed so long, and was once more regulating her demeanour with a fervent desire to deceive. She was convinced of one fact at the least. She had counted her chicks before they were hatched; it appeared impossible, in the face of what she had witnessed, that Mark could entertain the shadow of a regard for her. Still, it was obvious that he knew nothing more about Bridget's movements than Jimmy or Colonel Faversham, who made a valiant effort to change the subject by asking Mark whether he had anything to do. As it happened, he was quite busy in his incipient way. Sir Wilford Scones was seriously ill, and Randolph Messeter had been called in for a consultation. There would probably be an operation before the week ended. With the deliberate intention of creating a favourable impression on the colonel, for whose daughter's hand he was on the point of asking, Mark explained that Harefield's practice was turning out far better than could have been expected. Now and then he glanced significantly at Carrissima, who might have bidden him "good-bye" very happily if Bridget Rosser had never entered her life.

The next morning, at about twelve o'clock, Mark was in his consulting-room when Jimmy was announced. Sybil had seen him leave Upper Grosvenor Street with considerable misgiving, dreading lest his interview with Mark should lead to trouble with Carrissima. She sighed to remember his scepticism about Bridget's backsliding, and felt confident that her brother was on his way to a very painful ordeal.

Jimmy, for his own part, had scarcely attempted to explain the discrepancy between Sybil's story and his own ideal of Bridget. Otherwise he might, perhaps, have come to the conclusion that Carrissima had exaggerated, while Sybil had added a little more ghastly colour. Sybil was sometimes given to that kind of trick.

That Mark was nothing to Bridget, never had been anything to her, Jimmy felt certain. Driver had, indeed, dropped so completely out of her life that it had not seemed worth while to take the trouble to go to Weymouth Street in the hope of discovering a clue to her present abiding-place. In any case, Jimmy reached the house this Monday morning with a conviction that the scandalous fiction would at once be exploded.

He came to the point at once.

"Rather an unpleasant business has brought me here, Mark," he exclaimed. "To begin with, there's one thing I want to say. Understand I believe the whole story is a canard."

"What story?" asked Mark, sitting in his swivel-chair on one side of the leather-topped writing-table, while Jimmy stood a foot from the other.

"Of course," Jimmy continued, "I know there's not a grain of truth in it. Still when such an abominable accusation has been made, it's just as well to lose no time in scotching it."

Mark Driver had not the least suspicion. He sat with one elbow on the table, one hand supporting his chin, his handsome, alert face wearing the somewhat grave expression suitable to his professional environment. His visit to Grandison Square the previous evening alone would have been enough to prove, if proof were necessary, that Carrissima remained blissfully ignorant of that trivial act of folly in Golfney Place. An excellent test had been provided. Bridget's departure had been freely discussed, and Carrissima had not shown the slightest embarrassment. She had bidden him "good-bye" at eleven o'clock, and Colonel Faversham had encouraged him to come again before many days. They were always pleased to see him!

"But who in the world has been making an accusation?" asked Mark.

"Sybil—at least it originated with Carrissima," said Jimmy.

"My dear chap," retorted Mark warmly, "surely you must know that Carrissima is the very last person to make an accusation, founded or unfounded, against anybody."

"I should have thought so," Jimmy admitted.

"Whom is it against?"

"Bridget. I am bound to bring it out," said Jimmy. "The fact is Carrissima insists that you two have been gulling us all. To put it plainly, she declares there has been what she rather euphemistically calls 'an understanding' between you from first to last."

Mark was on his feet before Jimmy ceased speaking, but even now he did not perceive the real inwardness of the situation. The statement sounded incredible. If there was one fact of which this somewhat sceptical man was absolutely convinced, it was that whether Carrissima loved him well enough to marry him or not, she at least entertained the very highest opinion of him.

"You must be dreaming!" he cried. "Carrissima could never have said anything of the kind."

"Anyhow," answered Jimmy, "I had it from Sybil an hour or so ago."

"But, my dear fellow," Mark expostulated, "it's simply inconceivable. Carrissima knows that Bridget is nothing to me. To tell you the truth, I had my own reasons for going out of my way to tell her so."

"You thought it necessary!" exclaimed Jimmy hastily.

"Oh well," said Mark, "I had fallen into the habit of going to Golfney Place rather often—that was before I went to Yorkshire—as far back as January. Carrissima had the idea that I admired the girl; so I did, for that matter—who wouldn't? But she could never have told Sybil that! She couldn't think anything of the sort without setting me down as a thorough-paced liar at the least."

"The odd part of it is," replied Jimmy, "that, according to Sybil, Carrissima went in for particulars."

"Oh, let me hear them," said Mark, sitting down again.

He was just beginning to wonder. Was it possible that Carrissima had not dropped those flowers until after she had obtained a glimpse of the interior of Bridget's sitting-room? But, even so, she could never build such an abominable theory on that ludicrously insufficient evidence.

"Well," said Jimmy, "Carrissima insists that she saw you holding Bridget in your arms—in the act of kissing her, to put it plainly."

This was a trying moment for Mark Driver. His face was crimson, and he would have given a great deal to be able to deny the too soft impeachment. As this was impossible, he lost his temper with Carrissima. Egoism was probably the prime factor in his present mood. He thought less of the excuse he had provided than of the painful circumstance that he had been cutting such a sorry figure in her eyes.

While he flattered himself that she regarded him as a kind of king who could do no wrong, she had, in truth, looked upon him as a pretty contemptible scoundrel. It seemed an additional offence that she should have dissembled her opinion, so that when he, being beguiled, asked her to marry him, she might coolly send him about his business.

A suspicion of something, perhaps, resembling insincerity in his own conduct made him only more intolerant of hers. He saw now how much better it would have been, instead of trusting for immunity to her ignorance, to have taken his courage in his hands and made a clean breast of what, after all, was only a venial offence. A counsel of perfection, no doubt, but Mark wished that he had followed it.

He was deeply wounded in the most sensitive part, but while admitting his weakness in yielding to a commonplace temptation, he could make no excuse for Carrissima's scandalous libel. An hour ago, she had been the only woman in the world for him; as to Bridget—well, the old Adam had cropped out for an instant. To account for his vulnerability one must embark on a study of the theory of Evolution! If he had been actually affianced to Carrissima, the case would, no doubt, have been more serious, although even then there could be no justification for her shameful accusation. But he was not affianced to her, and, in the face of what he had just heard, he never wished to be.

Jimmy saw that Mark was deeply moved, and made a shrewd guess at the cause. In a friendly way, he walked round the writing-table, and standing by the side of the chair, rested a hand on the other's shoulder.

"I shouldn't take it too seriously," he said. "You'll generally find there's a way out somehow. You know I told you, to begin with, that I knew it was an infernal lie!"

"But—you see—it wasn't," answered Mark.

"I don't understand," said Jimmy, withdrawing his hand.

"It's perfectly true," muttered Mark, moistening his lips, "that Carrissima came to Golfney Place and saw me——"

"Saw you—saw you with Bridget in your arms! Good Lord!" exclaimed Jimmy, gazing down at Mark's bowed head.

Rising from his chair, Mark gripped one lapelle of his frock coat in each hand as he paced the small room.

"She was talking about her earlier days at Crowborough," he said, with considerable embarrassment. "She had been there that morning. She seemed upset, and I—well, I lost my head for the moment. I hadn't seen her since the day after my return from Paris. What I told Carrissima was absolutely true. The moment she entered Bridget's room I saw what a fool I had been. Of course, we both made the mistake of imagining Carrissima had seen nothing. But anyhow—whatever she saw, to think she could jump to such a conclusion!"

"Not very surprising, after all," said Jimmy quietly. "I fancy that I should have thought the same. You must admit the situation appeared a little compromising."

"You wouldn't say that if you had seen Bridget later on," answered Mark.

"Look here, old fellow," said Jimmy, "you and I have known each other a good many years. You remember when we used to fight like billy-oh at Brighton."

"I dare say you feel rather as if you would like to punch my head now," returned Mark.

"H'm, well—I tell you frankly," said Jimmy. "This jaw we're having may influence my whole life."

"It has already influenced mine," cried Mark.

"How's that?" demanded Jimmy.

"I have been hoping to marry Carrissima—to put it plainly. You've shown what she thinks of me."

"Surely," said Jimmy, "she had more than a little excuse!"

"My dear chap," replied Mark, "you're not such a prig that you can't understand the possibility of a man's losing his head about a pretty woman."

"Why, no," said Jimmy; "but I wish to goodness you had not chosen that particular one."

"If I had imagined Carrissima saw us, I should have explained things at once," added Mark.

"The question is," suggested Jimmy, "whether your explanation would have sounded quite convincing."

"Good Lord!" said Mark, "you speak as if you were not convinced!"

"Of one thing—yes," was the answer. "I can understand a fellow's kissing a pretty woman—or a dozen if it comes to that, but I know you're not the man to go where you're not certain you're wanted."

Now Mark hesitated, thinking that he had humiliated himself almost enough. Seeing, however, that Jimmy was hanging upon his answer, he felt compelled to belittle himself to the uttermost rather than allow the slightest obstacle to remain between Bridget and this man who appointed himself her champion.

"The truth is," said Mark, "I—well, I made a mistake."

"About Bridget?" demanded Jimmy eagerly.

"Yes," answered Mark. "I had no shadow of an excuse. From first to last she had never given me the remotest reason. It was simply my own egregious stupidity. To put it honestly, I acted like a bounder. I'm immensely sorry, Jimmy."

Jimmy could not help feeling sore about it. For one thing, he regretted the necessity to admit to Sybil that the false report contained that one word of truth. Worse than this! an indignity had been put on Bridget by Mark Driver, who seemed the last man in the world to inflict it. Jimmy, however, realized that one of her most potent charms was a delectable, seductive ingenuousness and irresponsibility, which might, perhaps, on occasion prove a little misleading to unregenerate man. Nevertheless, he felt sore as he left Weymouth Street.



CHAPTER XXIII

HAVING IT OUT

"Mr. Driver," announced Knight at half-past three that Monday afternoon.

Carrissima at once came to the conclusion that she had never seen him look so solemn—or quite so handsome, although she wished that he had stayed away.

"How are you, Mark?" she said, mustering a smile, however, as she held out her hand.

"I have come rather early," he answered, and Carrissima noticed that he barely touched her finger tips.

"Won't you sit down?" she suggested, returning to her own chair.

"So that I might make certain of finding you alone," continued Mark, still standing in the middle of the room.

"Well, your object is attained," she cried brightly. "Father is not at home, and I am not expecting any visitors."

"I thought the best plan," he said, "was to have it out without any waste of time."

"Oh dear!" murmured Carrissima. "Have what out?"

"I am going to speak quite plainly——"

"Why in the world shouldn't you?"

"I want to know," said Mark, "why you—of all people—told Sybil Clynesworth—well, what you did tell her?"

"What did I?" asked Carrissima.

"It amounts to this. That I have been acting like a pretty miserable humbug and scoundrel combined."

"Mark!" faltered Carrissima, "I didn't. I couldn't have said anything of the sort."

"Then Sybil deliberately invented the story!"

"But what—what story?" said Carrissima.

"The charming little tale she repeated to Jimmy!"

"If only you could manage to be a little more explicit," urged Carrissima, with a suggestion of annoyance in her tone.

"Oh, I shall speak out plainly enough," said Mark. "Sybil told Jimmy I had been carrying on a wretched intrigue with Bridget—neither more nor less. She gave you as her authority."

"She had no right," exclaimed Carrissima, and for an instant Mark's face cleared.

"Do you mean to say that you haven't mentioned my name to Sybil in such a connection?" he demanded, taking a step nearer.

"Yes, I mentioned your name," Carrissima admitted. "But I could never have said that—never! I feel almost certain I couldn't."

"Good heavens!" cried Mark, "you don't seem to know what you told her and what you didn't!"

Strange as it might appear to him, that was precisely the truth. She scarcely remembered what she had said in her excitement and disappointment, although she had little doubt it was something far too much to the point. His wrath was in some degree a relief to Carrissima, although she could not imagine what plausible excuse he could intend to offer. Because, after all, she could not disbelieve the evidence of her own senses.

"Mark," she said, "I don't think you are treating me in the least fairly."

"How is that?" he demanded.

"Oh well, you come here and take the offensive——"

"Then you believe I have nothing to do but defend myself?" said Mark.

"I can only suppose," she retorted, "that you fancy the best method is to try to carry the war into the enemy's country."

"My enemy—you! Good Lord!" exclaimed Mark.

"Of course," she continued, "there doesn't exist the slightest reason why you should take the trouble to excuse yourself to me. You have done me no wrong."

"By Jove! you have done me a cruel one," he said, with evident emotion.

"I am sorry I said a word to Sybil," answered Carrissima. "But she happened to be here when I got home from Golfney Place that afternoon. You know what I saw there——"

"I wish to goodness you hadn't gone near the house!" said Mark.

"No doubt you do!" she retorted. "It was no business of mine, only it seemed so utterly inconsistent with that you distinctly told me!"

"I told you precisely the truth," he insisted.

"Oh, what nonsense!" said Carrissima.

"How could it be! You told me that Bridget was—was nothing to you."

"She was nothing. She is nothing."

"If that is really the case," said Carrissima, "why, then your conduct appears inexplicable."

"Why didn't you tackle me?" he demanded. "Surely you have known me long enough!"

Carrissima realized that the circumstances were against her. She had, before to-day, come to the conclusion that those first excited suspicions were entirely unjustifiable; although Mark had no doubt deceived her, he could not be so bad as she had imagined at the time. She perceived that she might find one excuse which yet she durst not mention. If she could admit plainly that the sight of Bridget in his arms made her madly jealous and for the moment unaccountable for her words, then, perhaps, Mark might be mollified. At least this defence would be true. It seemed incongruous that she instead of him should be considered the offender; but above everything Carrissima must keep back the only explanation which was likely to sound plausible.

"It was nothing to me," she said.

"Anyhow, it was a great deal to me," replied Mark. "Of course I played the fool that afternoon. I don't want to make excuses. I admit there are none. But you ought to understand that Bridget was an innocent victim. No one was to blame but myself, and I not very severely. Yet because of one act of momentary folly you could tell Sybil that monstrous story."

"Well, I am sorry," said Carrissima. "I was carried away by excitement. I suppose it's a weakness of mine! I sometimes do tell people things and repent afterwards. I don't pretend to be immaculate."

"The fact is," returned Mark, "you've always been down on Bridget. The girl is absolutely straight! What beats me is that you could meet me as usual, as if nothing had come between us, take my hand and yet believe all the time I was that sort of outsider."

"And now," exclaimed Carrissima, "you ask me to believe that not having seen Bridget for weeks you went to her house and took her in your arms against her will! But there! what is the use of going over it all again? I feel immensely angry with Sybil. It is entirely her fault. She promised faithfully never to say a word."

"You beg the question in a rather womanly way," said Mark.

"Well, what would you have?" cried Carrissima, flinging out her arms. "I am a woman, you know. I dare say I am not always consistent, if that's what you mean."

"I thought it best to come and see you," answered Mark, with a shrug.

"Oh yes, by far the best," said Carrissima, with a shiver.

With that he went away, and Carrissima sought her room, locking herself in. She felt exceedingly angry with Sybil, and determined to write to her before the day ended. As to Mark, it was true she had done him an injustice, but his conduct appeared as difficult to explain as ever. Nothing which he had said made it any more comprehensible, and the only certainty seemed to be that a man could not conceivably love one woman and kiss another!



CHAPTER XXIV

A HOT SCENT

Mr. Joseph Dotting, having driven a hansom for several years, was compelled by force of circumstances to learn late in life to drive a taxi-cab or perish. He was not a man who, as a rule, took any absorbing interest in the events of the day, with the occasional exception, perhaps, of an exciting murder case; but he was always a close student of starting prices.

Having been ordered to wait outside Marshall and Snelgrove's on Tuesday morning, however, the two ladies whom he had driven from Eccleston Square kept him so long that he took Monday's 6.30 edition of the Evening News from beneath his seat. Happening to glance through the advertisement colums, his attention became presently arrested by the offer of Five Pounds reward.

"Dashed if that ain't the party I drove to Blackheath the other afternoon," he said half aloud. "Leastways, I picked her up in Golfney Place whether it was Number 5 or not. 'Tain't likely there was two of 'em!"

Mr. Joseph Botting felt certain that he could recognize the house again, and when at last the two ladies came forth from the shop, followed by a boy who was laden with many small parcels, Mr. Botting, in his haste to set them down at Eccleston Square again, put more than one life in peril.

The next thing was to drive to the nearest public-house, where it did not take many seconds to swallow a pint of six ale. The sandwiches which a careful wife had wrapped in a piece of newspaper, could wait until he had made certain of his good fortune. On reaching Golfney Place, he saw beyond a doubt that the house from which he had driven the young lady and her luggage was assuredly Number 5, and then Mr. Joseph Botting lost no time in making his way to Upper Grosvenor Street, where the advertisement said he was to apply.

Before he had time to get down from his seat Jimmy, having seen him through the dining-room window, came out with his napkin in his hand.

"'Morning, guvnor," said Joseph. "I've come about this 'ere five pound reward."

"You have only to tell me where you left the young lady," replied Jimmy, taking out his pocket-case and temptingly exposing a bank note.

"Well, you see, guvnor, I can't call to mind the address," said Joseph.

"It wasn't a railway station!"

"No," was the answer. "I'll tell you where it was."

"Where?" demanded Jimmy.

"Blackheath," said Dotting. "'Cabman,' she says, 'drive to the Marble Arch.' But when we got there she tells me to go over Westminster Bridge to Blackheath. As soon as we were at the village, as they calls it, she gets out and looks round for a second and then she darts across the road by the cab rank and goes into a sort of registry office. By an' by," Joseph Botting continued, "she comes out agin and tells me to drive on to—blest if I can recollect the name o' the place."

"Could you find your way to the house again?" suggested Jimmy, as Botting took off his cap and rubbed his crown.

"Like a shot, guvnor."

"Jump up, then," said Jimmy. "The moment I hear that the young lady has been at the house you shall have the fiver and a good tip beyond your fare."

"Right you are," cried Botting, and Jimmy, re-entering the hall, spoke a few words of unsatisfactory explanation to Sybil, while he thrust his arms into the sleeves of his motor coat.

When once he was on the way he quickly recovered his customary self-control. Lighting a cigar, he leaned back in the cab and was soon on the Surrey side of Westminster Bridge. He was driven along the dreary length of Walworth Road, to Camberwell Green, through Peckham to Lewisham. From the Lee High Road Joseph Botting turned along a shady thoroughfare to the left, presently reaching Blackheath with Greenwich Park on the farther side, and immediately on the right a row of high, old-fashioned houses.

"Here we are, guvnor!" exclaimed Joseph, applying his brake, and Jimmy was out on the pavement in an instant, across the long front garden, ringing the bell, knocking at the door.

"Miss Rosser?" he asked when it was opened by a middle-aged woman.

"She went out three-quarters of an hour ago," was the answer.

"At what time do you expect her home?" said Jimmy.

"She ordered tea for half-past four," replied the woman.

Jimmy could not wait until half-past four! He looked at his watch and saw there would be more than an hour!

"Can you tell me where she has gone?" he inquired.

"Well, she asked how to find Greenwich Park," said the woman, and as Jimmy turned away from the door he took out his pocket-book. Standing on the pavement he handed a five-pound note, together with the fare from Upper Grosvenor Street and a liberal tip to Joseph Botting, who grinned with delight, then Jimmy crossed the road and struck across the heath. A few children were scampering about, some men were playing at golf on this, the oldest course in England. Entering the park a few minutes later he followed the broad walk, bordered by Spanish chestnut trees, keeping the while a brisk lookout and hesitating whether to take one of the diverging paths to the right or left.

Surely that must be Bridget! She was scarcely to be mistaken, with her slender figure, her rather closely fitting skirt, her wide-brimmed hat, her wealth of chestnut-coloured hair! On Jimmy's left was the observatory, and two or three people were adjusting their watches by the large clock in the wall. She stood close to an iron railing, from which sloped down a grassy hill, and beyond lay Greenwich Hospital and the Thames; on its farther bank tall chimneys rising from amidst the docks and houses of the Isle of Dogs.

With her back still towards him, her eyes upon the wonderful prospect, she had no suspicion of Jimmy's propinquity until he mentioned her name.

"Bridget!" he whispered, close behind her, and on the instant she turned, her face radiant with joy.

"Oh, I wondered whether you would come!" she cried.

"What else could I do?" he said. "Now I am here, where can we go to talk about the most important subject in the world?"

"Let us," suggested Bridget, "stroll across the grass!"

They soon reached a secluded spot, and found some chairs near an ancient, ivy-covered tree-trunk, surrounded by an iron fence. The sun was shining brightly, and a fawn, which had strayed from the small herd of fallow deer, left off browsing to gaze. As Jimmy and Bridget sat down it turned and slowly ambled away.

"Why did you choose this particular place of all others?" asked Jimmy.

"Once upon a time," said Bridget, "years and years ago, my aunts used to live at Blackheath."

"I should rather like to take you to them at Sandbay," replied Jimmy. "I have been there. They are the dearest old ladies, and your proper place seems to be with them—for the present!"

"Oh, I couldn't," she exclaimed. "Especially after what I imagine you have told them about me. I really couldn't go," she said.

"Then you leave me only one alternative," said Jimmy. "I was anxious to do everything decently and in order, but it appears you won't let me."

"You have not asked why I left Golfney Place," suggested Bridget, leaning forward in her chair and digging the ferrule of her sunshade into the turf.

"I fancy I know," said Jimmy. "You lacked courage to face old Faversham."

"Oh, how abominably I treated him!" murmured Bridget.

"There is not the least doubt about it," Jimmy admitted.

"So very, very badly," she continued gravely, with her eyes on the grass, "that I wonder you took the trouble to find me."

"Do you?" he asked, and as she remained silent for a few moments Jimmy repeated the question. "Do you?" he said.

"Why, no," she cried, raising her head and facing him with a laugh. "But it is more than I deserve," she added. "Jimmy, I was in great straits. I saw how fast my money was going, that I should have none left in a year or two, and so when Colonel Faversham bothered me to marry him I gave in. I thought I could do it, you know."

"Until I came to undeceive you!" suggested Jimmy.

"Yes," said Bridget; "but I was afraid you might be—be disgusted! I wanted you to know, and yet I didn't. I tried to tell you time after time, and still I couldn't say the word which I thought might drive you away from me. I saw it would be impossible to marry Colonel Faversham, but if I threw him over what should I do in the future? I hesitated and hesitated. I went to Crowborough because I hoped the influence of the place might give me courage; it didn't and I had some wild idea of appealing to Mark for help. That—that wouldn't do, and Colonel Faversham insisted I should tell him when I would be his wife—he talked of our being married within a week or ten days. Oh dear! how hard I tried to make him understand; but I couldn't succeed, and at last in desperation a fresh idea occurred to me: I would run away! I told him to come for his answer the next morning—oh, I know I was horrid to him!"

"Well, we agree about that," said Jimmy. "We are going to agree about everything, you see. I suppose," he added, "you thought you would appeal to me as a sort of forlorn hope?"

"Oh, it was scarcely worth calling a hope," she answered. "You had said so much about truthfulness. You could forgive anything else but deceit, and of course I had deceived you from the beginning."

"So that you love me in the end," he said.

"Ah, Jimmy!" murmured Bridget. "But nobody will ever relieve it. They will think I threw Colonel Faversham over because you were the richer. It is only natural they should say that."

"Let them say what they like," was the answer. "When you told me about your engagement I could do only one thing. I should have liked to ask you to come away with me then and there; but I—well, it couldn't be done, dear. The moment I heard you were free of the colonel, I hadn't a doubt in the world. Bridget, you will have to make up your mind to marry me at once."

She did not attempt to gainsay him, but placed her hand in his, and a few minutes later they rose from their chairs, walking across the grass to the gate by which Jimmy had entered the park. Bridget's step was light, she hung upon his arm as they crossed the heath, the sun shone upon her and she looked as if she had not a care in the world.

"I must say 'good-bye' now," said Jimmy, outside the garden gate. "I shall see you to-morrow afternoon, but Sybil must come in the morning."

"At last!" cried Bridget, with a smile.

"Well, I always told you she would come," he answered. "For the rest, I think your best plan will be to return to Golfney Place—it won't be for many days, you know. Suppose I see Miller this evening and Sybil can bring the motor-car to drive you back."



CHAPTER XXV

OPEN CONFESSION

Sybil Clynesworth made an unconditional surrender. It was true that, never having seen Bridget, she failed to understand Jimmy's facile satisfaction. She certainly still considered that he was ridiculously credulous. But while she would have been prepared to go to great lengths in order to prevent her brother from entering into what she could not help regarding as an unsuitable marriage, she saw that he had made up his mind.

The idea of living on unfriendly terms with him or his wife appeared preposterous, whereas a single false step at this critical period might easily make Bridget her enemy for life. So Sybil expressed her willingness to fall in with Jimmy's wishes; she would go to Blackheath in the motor-car early the following morning, inconvenient as the expedition would be; and she would bring Miss Rosser back to Golfney Place.

When the time came, however, Sybil set out with considerable nervousness, and her legs threatened to give way beneath her as she got out of the motor-car at the garden gate. The first sight of Bridget at least put an end to any surprise at Jimmy's infatuation, and when she came forward with both hands held out, kissing her visitor's cheek without the slightest hesitation, the way was half won to Sybil's accessible heart.

"You see, you are Jimmy's sister," said Bridget, with a charming air of entreaty, and in spite of her former equivocal opinion of Miss Rosser, Sybil could not refrain from answering—

"My dear, you must let me be yours."

Bridget, it appeared, was to return to lunch in Upper Grosvenor Street, and Jimmy, having already spoken to Miller, would escort her to No. 5, Golfney Place during the afternoon. It was while he was absent on this errand that Sybil sat down to write to Carrissima, sending the note to Grandison Square by hand. Since the reproachful letter which Sybil had received on the morning after the interview with Mark Driver, it seemed too soon to carry the epoch-marking news in person. So she explained that Jimmy was engaged to be married, and admitted her own more favourable impression of her prospective sister-in-law; she told Carrissima that Bridget had returned to Golfney Place, and added that the wedding was to take place at once.

"Well," demanded Colonel Faversham, who happened to be sitting with Carrissima when Knight brought in the letter, "who's it from?"

"Sybil Clynesworth," she answered, with her eyes on the notepaper.

"What has she got to say?" exclaimed the colonel, fidgeting in his chair. "Why do you hesitate?" he added.

"Jimmy is going to be married," said Carrissima.

"H'm! Going to marry Bridget?"

"From what Sybil says, in a very few days," was the answer.

Colonel Faversham said nothing more at the moment. He had been doing his utmost to make a virtue of necessity. The grapes were sour. He ought to be thankful for a lucky escape! He wished Jimmy joy of his bargain! Nevertheless, he looked dejected as he sat in his easy-chair, and Carrissima could not help feeling sorry for him in one way, although she was profoundly thankful that he had been saved, in spite of himself, from a marriage which could scarcely have failed to turn out miserably.

"I suppose," said Carrissima, "I ought to send some sort of wedding present?"

"Send a wedding present! Of course! Why not?" answered Colonel Faversham, eager above all things to keep her for ever ignorant of his own engagement. "Better go to Donaldson's," he added.

"There's not much time to lose," suggested Carrissima. "I think I will go to-morrow morning."

"Upon my word," said her father, "I should rather like to get away for a bit."

"Oh, so should I!" was the answer.

"You wouldn't care to cut into the season!"

"I really shouldn't mind a scrap," said Carrissima.

She was inclined to feel that she did not much care about anything, and the news of Bridget's betrothal seemed to intensify her own disappointment.

"Would next week be too soon?" asked Colonel Faversham, and she promised to be ready by its end. He began at once to interest himself in the trip; they were to go abroad, and having fetched some old volumes of Baedeker from the smoking-room, he grew more cheerful than Carrissima had seen him for some days.

The next morning she spent an hour and a half at Donaldson's, inspecting various gold and silver articles, but at last selecting nothing more original than a large rose-bowl. On her way home, close to Golfney Place, she met Mark, and wondered whether she should stop if he showed no sign of doing so. She had never passed him by before, and in spite of a lingering sense of injustice, and even indignation, she had not the heart to let him go on without a word. She felt confident, however, that he would not have spoken if she had not taken the matter out of his hands.

"Have you heard the latest news?" asked Carrissima, as he raised his hat.

"About Jimmy and Bridget—yes, I was immensely glad to have a visit from him late last night."

"I have just been choosing a wedding present at Donaldson's," said Carrissima.

"Oh yes," replied Mark, so distantly that she looked up suddenly to his face.

"How is your patient?" she inquired.

"Sir Wilford?" said Mark. "I have just come from Burnham Crescent. Randolph Messeter operated. I hope we shall pull him through."

"Father and I are going abroad," Carrissima explained. "I dare say we shall be away quite a month."

"I hope you will have a good time," said Mark, and then raising his hat again, he walked on.

Carrissima bit her lower lip and kept her eyes on the pavement. She had done all she could, and there was an end of it! Perhaps the lapse of time would make him more reasonable, because it really was ridiculous to behave as if she were the original sinner. Not that she imagined that anything in the world would ever facilitate the happiness to which she had formerly tried to look forward.

The same evening brought a surprise in the form of a letter from Bridget. She wished to see Carrissima very particularly indeed. As it was not very convenient to come to Grandison Square, would Carrissima mind going to Golfney Place at half-past eleven the following morning?

Carrissima certainly could understand the "inconvenience" of a visit to Colonel Faversham's house, but she scarcely hesitated about going to see Bridget at her lodgings. Personally, she had not the least antipathy to the marriage, and, moreover, it seemed inevitable that she should see something of Jimmy's wife in the future. Consequently there was nothing to be gained by holding aloof in the present.

She was at once impressed by the subtle change in Miss Rosser's demeanour. It almost seemed as if she had increased in stature during the last few days; certainly she held her head higher in the air. There was an obvious accession of dignity, and she greeted her visitor rather condescendingly—quite charmingly, nevertheless.

"Thank you so very, very much for that lovely rose-bowl," she exclaimed. "So clever of you to know just what we wanted. Jimmy was here when it came yesterday evening, and he admired it immensely. Besides, it was our first wedding present!"

"Now I must add my congratulations," said Carrissima.

"Carrissima!" answered Bridget, "it's all beautiful. Do you like my ring?" she continued, holding out her left hand. "Jimmy wanted to see you, but I insisted upon having you all to myself. Do, please, sit down!"

Carrissima took a chair, and her thoughts flew back to that last dreadful visit when she had sat nearly in the same position, striving to lead Mark to believe that she had not seen him with Bridget in his arms.

"You must have been immensely surprised to get my letter," said Bridget. "I had a long discussion with Jimmy before I sent it. Of course it would not have been written but for what he told me, only I should love to try and make you happy too, though you may hate me for it. I don't want you to hate me," Bridget added, "because I could grow very fond of you if you would let me. Mean to blame one's circumstances, isn't it? Still, you know, if my father and mother had lived I have no shadow of doubt I should have gone along quite decently, and you would have thought I was a very estimable person. But I really want to talk about Mark!"

"What about him?" asked Carrissima, at once on her guard.

"The fact is," Bridget explained, "I ought to have drawn in and lived on my hundred pounds a year, or whatever it was, only I hadn't got it in me. I formed a different plan. I thought I would take London by storm—no less! I had been flattered and spoiled in Paris, and goodness knows what ridiculous ideas I came away with. Well, I was left alone with no one to speak to till I recognized Mark at the Old Masters', and dropped my purse so that he might pick it up and give me an excuse to claim acquaintance. They say that open confession is good for the soul! Oh dear, mine ought to be in such splendid condition."

"Why should you inflict the penance on yourself to-day?" suggested Carrissima.

"I liked Mark Driver," said Bridget, "and I thought he liked me—in a rather different way. Until he went to Yorkshire, I believed he would ask me to marry him. I had tried to make him! After his return, that evening he took me to Belloni's, I tried my hardest and wondered why I failed till I saw you."

"I don't see what I can possibly have to do with it," murmured Carrissima.

"Oh, you were very discreet—very clever! But it wasn't long before I saw you would give your heart for Mark——"

"You have not the least right to say that!" exclaimed Carrissima.

"Of course I haven't," Bridget admitted. "I am taking the most abominable liberty. Well, I was going to tell you that when Colonel Faversham asked me to marry him, I temporized until Mark's return from Paris; then I knew for certain there was nothing to be hoped for from him. I am giving myself away pretty liberally," said Bridget, "but this is what I want to make you understand. Though I deliberately devoted myself to captivate Mark, he never yielded—till just that once! Odd, that I who feel absolutely indifferent about him, should read his character so much more correctly than you who love him. Oh, please," entreated Bridget, "don't look so fierce, because if I had not been certain, there would have been no object in asking you to come here this morning."

"I cannot see one in—in any case!" said Carrissima.

"Oh, I hope there is," answered Bridget. "I know it sounds a wee bit inconsistent, because, of course, Mark was wrong, and at the time I felt immensely angry with him. But he wasn't a thousandth part so wrong as you imagined, and, Carrissima! there are very few men of his age whom you or I couldn't tempt if we gave our minds to it."

"I am not in the least likely to make the experiment," exclaimed Carrissima.

"No, but, you see, I did! It's true nothing could have been further from my thoughts or my wishes on the afternoon you dropped the roses. But how was Mark to know that? And at other times I had done my very best to lead him on, and I failed only because of you! Imagine what it meant when he heard from Jimmy that the woman he loved, whom he had intended to ask to be his wife——"

"That is your own imagination!" cried Carrissima. "You cannot possibly have any ground for believing such a thing!"

"Anyhow, I have his own assurance; besides, he told Jimmy, if my word is not enough. You told Sybil that Mark had lied to you, and acted goodness knows how horridly concerning me, and the truth was he had merely lost his head for a single instant, and what was it after all? Carrissima, I have taken myself to pieces just to convince you I am sincere for once in a way! I see the possibility of danger ahead . . . danger that Mark is too much hurt to come forward again, and what a pity! Take my advice and don't let things rest. What does it matter who eats humble pie if you're going to dine together for the remainder of your lives? Do something at once! Write to him—send for him as I sent for you. I hoped I might make you believe he loves you, and that then you might live happily ever after!"



CHAPTER XXVI

LAWRENCE SUMS IT UP

The ensuing few hours proved the most restless of Carrissima's life. At luncheon she could scarcely concentrate her thoughts sufficiently to listen to the explanation of Colonel Faversham's plans for the forthcoming tour abroad, and afterwards she retired to her own room, where she made a valiant attempt to persuade herself that as the mountain would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain.

It required, however, considerable courage to follow Bridget's advice and send Mark a letter, and when at last she succeeded in silencing her doubts, she scarcely knew what to say to him. Hitherto, in all her dealings with Mark, she had felt uncertain (to say the least) about his regard. Now, if Bridget were to be credited, there remained no room for disbelief. Mark loved her! In spite of that compromising situation which she had witnessed, he loved her.

If this were the case, nothing else seemed to be of any importance. Carrissima was prepared to condone an offence, the importance of which, she supposed, she had exaggerated; and perhaps if she were to make herself more abject, he would grasp the olive branch. As Bridget suggested, what did it matter so that they came together at last? Granting his love, as there could be no doubt about her own, it would be sheer foolishness to allow the present unfortunate estrangement to continue.

So she took a pen presently, and after profound consideration succeeded in writing the few necessary words—

"MY DEAR MARK,

"Will you be magnanimous and spare me a few minutes after dinner this evening?

"Yours very sincerely,

"CARRISSIMA."

The mountain in labour having brought forth a mouse, Carrissima put on her hat and set out, intending personally to post the letter. There would be ample time. He would receive it before seven o'clock, and, it was to be hoped, reach Grandison Square soon after nine. She determined to be on the watch for his arrival, in order to take him to some unoccupied room. Well, what then? she wondered, as she drew near the pillar-box. What could she do but repeat the assurance already given that she had never really believed what she told Sybil Clynesworth—or at the worst only for a few seconds.

Bridget, presumably, expected her to employ some feminine wiles to bring Mark to a more amenable condition, but there Carrissima drew the line. Within reach of the pillar-box, she took the letter in both hands, tore it into a dozen pieces and scattered them to the winds.

She would not, after all, make any definite appointment. If Mark loved her he was not likely to change, and everything must eventually come right; if he did not, why, in that case she could not do aught to improve the existing condition of things, even if she would. Time might, unassisted, enable him to judge her more leniently. If she did not meet him before she left England, he could scarcely fail, sooner or later, to cross her path after her return. In the meantime, rather miserably, she began her preparations; and, as it happened, she was to depart two days after Bridget's marriage.

Although this had been arranged to take place very quietly at the church which Sybil so regularly attended, a good many of Jimmy's friends seemed to hear of the affair. Small as the wedding-party was (although it included the Misses Dobson), a large congregation gathered together. Mark was present, at the rear of the church; but although Carrissima hesitated, she conquered her curiosity and stayed away.

Going to Charteris Street the same afternoon, she found Lawrence in a mood to moralize.

"Well," he remarked, "they are a lively pair, Jimmy and this wife of his!"

"Yes, they will at least be that," returned Carrissima. "After all, I suppose it's something to the good, and they're certain to get along splendidly together."

"They will flourish like the green bay tree," exclaimed Lawrence.

"Oh, don't be a Pharisee!" said Carrissima.

"I am a man of common-sense," he protested. "We all know Jimmy! The only astonishing thing is that he was not too experienced a bird to be so easily caught."

"Perhaps he was willing to meet his fate," suggested Phoebe.

"Not a doubt about it," said her husband. "So complete was his beguilement."

"You entirely ignore the possibility that Bridget may be sincerely fond of him," said Carrissima.

"Just as she was fond first of Mark, then of father," retorted Lawrence. "You must admit that she angled for each in turn, and that she finally chose the richest."