Her voice broke. She turned to the girl in the bed with eyes grown terrible in their wild anguish of pain. "Allegro!" she cried. "Allegro! Give him up! Give him up—if not for my sake—for your own! You couldn't—be happy—with him!"

With the words she seemed to crumple as though all power had suddenly left her, and sank downwards upon the floor, huddling against the bed with agonized sobbing, her black head bowed almost to the floor.

Olga was beside her in an instant, stooping over her, wrapping warm arms about her. "My darling, don't, don't!" she pleaded. "You know I would never do anything to hurt you. I never dreamed of this indeed—indeed!"

Violet made a passionate movement to thrust her away, but she would not suffer it. She held her close.

"Violet dearest, don't cry like this! There is no need for it. Really, you needn't be so distressed. There, darling, come into bed with me. You'll be ill if you cry so. Violet! Violet!"

But Violet was utterly beyond control, and her paroxysm of weeping only grew more and more violent, till after some minutes Olga became seriously frightened. She stood up, and began to ask herself what she must do.

It was then that to her intense relief the door slid open and Nick's head was poked enquiringly in.

"Hullo!" he said softly. "Anything wrong?"

She motioned him to enter, being on the verge of tears herself.

"Nick, she's hysterical! What am I to do?"

"Better fetch Max," he said.

But the words were hardly out of his mouth before Max himself pushed the door wide open and entered!

He bore a small lamp in his hand which threw his somewhat grim features into strong relief. He made a weird figure in his night-attire, and his red hair looked as if it had been brushed straight on end.

He looked at neither Olga nor Nick, merely for a single instant at the shivering, sobbing girl on the floor, ere he set down his lamp with decision and turned to the washing-stand.

Olga stood and watched him as one fascinated. He was quite deliberate in all he did. With the utmost calmness he took up a tumbler and poured out some cold water.

Then very quietly he went to Violet, bent over her, gathered the dark hair back upon her shoulders.

She started at his touch, started and cried out in wild alarm, raising her head. And Max, with a set intention which seemed to Olga scarcely short of brutal, dashed a spray of water full into her deathly face.

She flinched away from him with another cry, gasping for breath and staring up at him as one in nightmare terror.

"You!" she uttered voicelessly. "You!"

He held what was left of the water to her lips. "Drink!" he said with insistence.

She tried feebly to resist. Her teeth chattered against the glass.

"Drink!" Max said again relentlessly.

Olga stooped swiftly forward and slipped a supporting arm around her. Violet drank a little, and turned to her, weakly sobbing.

"Allegro, send him away! Send him away!"

"Yes, dear, yes; he's going now," murmured Olga soothingly.

Max gave the glass to Nick with the absolute detachment of the professional man, and proceeded to take Violet's pulse. He watched her closely as he did so, with shaggy brows drawn down.

Violet gazed at him wide-eyed. She was no longer sobbing, but she shivered from head to foot.

"Yes," said Max at last, in the tone of one continuing an interrupted conversation. "Well, now you are going back to bed."

Violet shrank against Olga. "Let me stay with you, Allegro!" she murmured piteously.

"Of course you shall, dear," Olga made quick reply.

But in the same instant she saw Max elevate one eyebrow and knew that this suggestion did not meet with his approval.

"You will sleep better in your own room," he said. "Come along! Let me help you."

He put his arm about her and lifted her to her feet; but she clung fast to Olga still.

"I won't go without you, Allegro," she cried hysterically.

"My dear, of course not!" Olga answered. She caught up her dressing-gown and wrapped it round her friend. "You're as cold as ice," she said.

They helped her back to her own room between them, almost carrying her, for she seemed to have no strength left.

Max said nothing further of any sort till she was safely in bed, then somewhat brusquely he turned to Olga.

"Put on your dressing-gown and go down to the surgery! I want a bottle out of the cupboard there. It's a poison bottle, labelled P.K.R.; you can't mistake it. Third shelf, left-hand corner. The keys are in your father's desk. You know where. Put on your slippers too, and take a candle! Mind you don't tumble downstairs!" His eyes travelled to the doorway where Nick hovered. "Go with her, will you?" he said. "Bring back a medicine-glass too! There's one on the surgery mantelpiece."

He turned back to Violet again, stooping low over her, his hand upon her wrist.

Olga fled upon her errand with the speed of a hare, leaving Nick to follow with a candle. Even as she went she heard a cry behind her, but she sped on with a feeling that Max was compelling her.

When Nick joined her a few seconds later she had already found the keys and was fumbling in the dark for the cupboard-lock.

They found the medicine-bottle exactly where Max had said, and Olga snatched it out, seized the glass, and was gone. She was back again in Violet's bedroom barely two minutes after she had left it, but the instant she entered she was conscious of a change. Violet was lying quite straight and stiff with glassy eyes upturned. Max was bending over her, tight-lipped, motionless, intent. He spoke without turning his head.

"Just a teaspoonful—not a drop more. The rest water."

Olga poured out the dose, controlling her hands with difficulty.

"Not a drop more," he reiterated. "There's sudden death in that. Finished? Then give it to me!"

He raised Violet up in bed and took the glass from Olga. A curious perfume filled the room—a scent familiar but elusive. Olga stood breathing it, wondering what it brought to mind.

Max held the glass against the pale lips, and suddenly she remembered. It was the magic draught he had given to her two days before.

Violet seemed to be unconscious, but she drank nevertheless very slowly, with long pauses in between. Gradually the glassy look passed from her eyes, the long lashes drooped.

Max held out the empty glass to Olga. "You go back to bed now," he said. "She will sleep for some time."

"I can't leave her," Olga whispered.

He was lowering the senseless girl upon the pillow and made no reply. Having done so, he stooped and set his ear to her heart for a space of several seconds. Then he stood up and turned quietly round.

"You can't do anything more. Thanks for fetching that stuff! Why didn't you put on your slippers as I told you?"

His manner was perfectly normal. He left the bedside and took up the medicine-bottle, holding it against the lamp.

"Are you sure she will be all right?" whispered Olga.

"Quite sure," he said.

She turned her attention to the bottle also. "What is that stuff?" she asked.

He looked at her, and for an instant she saw his sardonic smile. "It's sudden death if you take enough of it," he said.

"Yes, I know," said Olga. "It's what you call 'the pain-killer,' isn't it?"

"Exactly," said Max, "Hence the legend on the label. But what do you know about the pain-killer? Who told you about it? I know I didn't."

"It was Mrs. Briggs," said Olga, and then turned hotly crimson under his eyes.

There fell a sudden silence; then, "You go back to bed," said Max. "And you are to settle down and sleep, mind. Don't lie awake and listen."

"You are sure she will sleep till morning?" said Olga, lingering by the bed.

"Yes." He put his hand on her shoulder, and wheeled her towards the door. "There's Nick waiting to tuck you up. Run along! I am going myself immediately."

She went, more to escape from his presence than for any other reason. There was undoubtedly something formidable about Max Wyndham at that moment notwithstanding his light speech, something that underlay his silence, making her curiously afraid thereof.

She did not lie and listen when she returned to bed, but a very long time passed before she slept.



CHAPTER XV

THE AWAKENING

Olga slept late on the following morning, awaking at length with a wild sense of dismay at having done so. She leaped up as the vivid memory of the night's happenings rushed upon her, and, seizing her dressing-gown, ran out into the passage and so to Violet's room.

Very softly she turned the door-handle, and peeped in. The curtains were drawn, but the morning-breeze blew them inwards, admitting the full daylight. Violet was lying awake with her face to the door.

"That you, Allegro? Come in!" she called. "I've had the oddest night."

Olga slipped in and went to her. The beautiful eyes were very wide open. They gazed up at her wonderingly. The forehead above them was slightly drawn.

"I've been dead," said Violet slowly. "I've just come to life."

"My darling!" Olga said.

"Yes. Isn't it queer? It was so strange, Allegro. I went right up to the very door of Paradise. But I suffered a lot first. I suffered—horribly. And when I got there—the door was shut in my face." Violet uttered a curious little laugh that had in it a note of pain. "That was when I died," she said.

Olga stooped to kiss her. "It was a dream," she said.

"Oh, but it wasn't," said Violet. She threw her arms unexpectedly around Olga's neck, and held her very tightly, as if she were afraid. "Allegro," she said under her breath, "I believe I left my soul behind. It's up there, waiting for the door to open. I hope it won't get lost."

The words sent a sharp chill through Olga. She held her friend closely, protectingly. "Darling, I don't think you are quite awake yet," she said very tenderly. "Stay in bed for a little while, and I'll dress and get your breakfast."

"Oh, no! Oh, no! I'm going to get up!" Quickly Violet made reply, almost feverishly. "I couldn't possibly lie still and do nothing. I've got to find the way out. It's very dark, but I daresay I shall manage. Blind people learn to, don't they? And that's what has happened to me, really. I've gone blind, Allegro, blind inside."

She put Olga from her, and prepared to rise. Her eyes were very bright, but there was a curiously furtive look about them. They seemed afraid to look.

"Wait anyhow till you have had some tea," urged Olga. "I'll run down and order it."

"No, don't go, Allegro! Don't leave me! I don't want to be alone." Impetuously Violet stretched out her hands to her. "Don't go!" she pleaded. "I'm so afraid—he—will come. And I don't want him to know anything about it. You won't tell him? Promise, Allegro!"

"Who, dear?" Olga asked the question though she knew the inevitable answer. She was becoming seriously uneasy, though she sought to reassure herself with the thought that Violet's nerves were of the high-strung order and could scarcely have failed to suffer from the strain they had undergone.

Violet answered her with obvious impatience. "Why, Max, of course! Who else? Promise you won't tell him, Allegro!"

"Tell him what, dear?" questioned Olga.

Violet started up from her bed and sprang to the open door. She closed it and stood facing Olga with arms outstretched across it. Her breath came pantingly through dilated nostrils.

"You're not to tell him—not to tell him—what I have just told you. If he knows I'm trying to get out, he'll stop me. Don't you understand? Oh, don't you understand?" A fury of impatience sounded in her voice; she quivered from head to foot. "He keeps the door," she said. "And he never sleeps. Why, even last night he was there. Didn't you see him? Those dreadful green eyes—like—like a tiger in the dark? Olga—" suddenly and passionately she began to plead "—you won't tell him, dearest! You couldn't be so cruel! Can't you see what it means to me? Don't you realize that it's my better self that's gone? And I've got to follow—I must follow. If he doesn't know, perhaps I shall manage to slip through when he isn't looking. Dear, you wouldn't have me kept a prisoner—against my will? He's so hard, Allegro—so hard and merciless. And he keeps the door so close. I should have got away last night if it hadn't been for him. So you won't tell him, will you? You'll promise me you won't!"

Olga listened to the appeal with a heart that seemed turned to stone. She knew not what to say or do.

"It's my only chance!" urged Violet, in a voice that was beginning to break. "Oh, how can you hesitate? Are you all in league against me? Allegro! Allegro!"

"There, dear, there! It's all right. Don't worry!" Swiftly Olga collected herself and spoke. "There's nothing to be afraid of. No one shall keep you against your will."

"You promise, Allegro?" Violet looked at her doubtfully, yet as if she wished to be reassured.

"Yes, of course, dear. Now really you must let me go and dress. It's eight o'clock, and I shan't be ready for breakfast."

Violet came slowly away from the door. She did not look wholly satisfied, but she said no more; and Olga hastened back to her room with deadly misgiving at her heart. She felt as if there were tragedy in the very air. It seemed to be closing in upon her, a dread mist of unfathomable possibilities.

She dressed with nervous haste, and hurried downstairs, wondering a little that Max had not bestirred himself to ascertain the effect of his treatment.

She wondered still more when she found him calmly established behind the morning paper in an arm-chair in the dining-room. He laid it aside at her entrance, and rose to greet her.

"Well?" he said, with her hand in his.

She looked up to find his eyes piercingly upon her. They shone intensely green in the morning light.

She removed her hand somewhat abruptly. There was something in his manner that she resented, without knowing why. "Well?" she said.

"How do you find yourself this morning?" asked Max.

"I'm perfectly well, thank you," said Olga briefly.

"Ready to start jam-making?" he suggested.

Olga went to the coffee-urn. "I really don't know," she said. "I've had other things to think about."

He smiled a little, the superior, one-sided smile she most detested. "You mustn't let the fruit go bad," he observed, "after all my trouble."

Olga peered into the coffee-urn, without replying. Max in an exasperating mood could be very exasperating indeed. He pulled out the chair next to her, and sat down.

"And how is the beautiful Miss Campion?" he said.

Olga looked at him. She could not help it.

"Well?" said Max.

She coloured hotly. "I wonder you haven't been to see for yourself," she said.

"Perhaps I have," said Max.

She turned from his open scrutiny, and began to pour out the coffee with a hand not wholly steady.

"I presume—if you had—you wouldn't ask me," she said.

He lodged his chin on his hand, the better to study her. "In making that presumption, fair lady," he said, "you are not wholly justified. Has it never occurred to you that I might entertain a certain veneration for your opinion on a limited number of subjects?"

Olga set down the coffee-urn and squarely turned upon him. "Have you seen her this morning?" she asked him point-blank.

"Yes, I have seen her," he said.

"Then you know as much as I do," said Olga.

"Not quite," he returned. "I soon shall however. Did she seem pleased to see you this morning?"

"Of course," said Olga.

"And why 'of course'? Do you never disagree?" He asked the question banteringly, yet his eyes were still upon her, unflaggingly intent.

"We never quarrel," said Olga.

"I see. You have differences of opinion; is that it? And what happens then? Is there never a tug of war?" Max's smile became speculative.

"No, never," said Olga.

"Never?" He raised his red brows incredulously. "Do you mean to say you give in to her at every turn? She can be fairly exacting, I should imagine."

"I would give her anything she really wanted if it lay in my power," said Olga very steadily.

"Would you?" said Max. He suddenly ceased to smile. "Even if it chanced to be something you wanted rather badly yourself?"

She nodded. "Wouldn't you do as much for someone you loved?"

"That depends," said Max cautiously.

"Oh, of course!" said Olga quickly. "You're a man!"

He laughed. "You've made that remark before. I assure you I can't help it. No, I certainly wouldn't place all my possessions at the disposal of even my best friend. There would always be—reservations."

He looked at her with a smile in his eyes, but Olga did not respond to it. An inner voice had suddenly warned her to step warily. She took up the coffee-urn again.

"I wouldn't give much for that kind of friendship," she said.

"But is it always in one's power to pass on one's possessions?" questioned Max. "I maintain that the possessions are entitled to a voice in the matter."

"I don't understand you," said Olga, in a tone that implied that she had no desire to do so.

"No?" said Max indifferently. "Well, I think unselfishness should never be carried to extremes. Some women have such a passion for self-sacrifice that they will stick at nothing to satisfy it. The result is that unwilling victims get offered up, and you will admit that that is scarcely fair."

Olga handed him his coffee. "Will you cut the ham, please?" she said.

"Do you catch my meaning yet?" asked Max, not to be thwarted.

She shook her head. "But really it doesn't matter, and it's getting late."

"Sorry to keep you," he replied imperturbably, "but when I take the trouble to expound my views, I like to guard against any misunderstanding. Just tell me this, and I shall be satisfied. If you were at a ball, and you had a partner you liked and who liked you, and you came upon your friend crying because she wanted that particular partner—would you give him up to her?"

"Of course I should," said Olga. "I don't call that a very serious self-sacrifice."

"No?" said Max. He gave her a very peculiar look, and pursed his lips for an instant as if about to whistle. "And if the unfortunate partner objected?"

Olga began vigorously to cut some bread. "He would have to put up with it," she said.

Max rose without comment and went to the ham. There followed a somewhat marked silence as he commenced to carve it. Then: "Pardon my persistence, fair lady," he said. "But just one more question—if you've no objection. Suppose you were my partner and Hunt-Goring the forlorn friend, do you think I should be justified in passing you on to him? It would be a considerable self-sacrifice on my part."

"Oh, really!" exclaimed Olga, in hot exasperation. "What absurd question will you ask next?"

He looked across at her with a complacent smile. "You see, I'm only a man," he said coolly. "But that illustrates my point. It's not always possible to pass on all one's possessions, is it? It may answer in theory but not in practice. I think you catch my meaning now?"

"Hadn't you better have your breakfast?" said Olga, with a glance at the clock.

Max's eyes followed hers. "Where's Nick? Has he overslept himself?"

"He has not," said Nick, entering at the moment. "It is not a habit of his. Well, Olga, my child, how goes the world this morning?"

She turned with relief to greet him. His genial personality was wonderfully reassuring. He kissed her lightly, and took up his correspondence.

"Let me open them!" she said.

He stood by and watched her while she did it. She was very deft in all her ways, but to-day for some reason her hands were not quite so steady as usual.

Nick threw a sudden glance across at Max while he waited. "Miss Campion all right this morning?" he asked.

"Apparently," said Max, staring deliberately at a point some inches above Nick's head.

Nick pivoted round abruptly, and found Violet standing in the doorway directly behind him. He went instantly to meet her.

"Hullo, Miss Campion! You're just in time for breakfast. Come and have some!"

His tone was brisk and kindly. He took her hand and drew her forward. She submitted listlessly. Her face was white and her eyes deeply shadowed. She scarcely raised them as she advanced.

"Hullo, Nick!" she said indifferently. "Hullo, Allegro! No, I don't want any breakfast. I'm not hungry to-day." She reached the table, and for the first time seemed to become aware of Max, seated on the opposite side of it.

Her eyes suddenly opened wide. She stood still and faced him. "I want my cigarettes," she said, with slow emphasis.

Olga glanced at him sharply, in apprehension of she knew not what. Max's face, however, expressed no anxiety. He even faintly smiled.

"What! Haven't you got any? I shall be happy to supply you with some," he said, feeling in his pocket for his own case.

She leaned her hands upon the table in a peculiar, crouching attitude that struck Olga as curiously suggestive of an angry animal.

"I don't want yours," she said, in a deep voice that sounded almost like a menace. "I want my own!"

Max looked straight at her for a few seconds without speaking. Then, "I am sorry," he said very deliberately. "But you mustn't smoke that sort any more. They are not good for you."

"And you have dared to take them away?" she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I had no choice."

"No choice!" She echoed the words in a voice that vibrated very strangely. "You speak as if—as if—you had a right to confiscate my property."

"I have a right to confiscate that sort," said Max.

"What right?" She flung the question like a challenge, and as she flung it she straightened herself in sudden splendid defiance. All the pallor had gone from her face. She glowed with fierce, pulsing life.

Max remained looking at her. There was a glint of mercilessness in his eyes. "What right?" he repeated slowly. "If you saw a blind man walking over a precipice, would you say you hadn't the right to stop him?"

"I am not blind!" she flung back at him. "And I refuse to be stopped by you—or anyone!"

Max raised his red brows. "You amaze me," he said. "Then you are aware of the precipice?"

She clenched her hands. "I know what I am doing—yes! And I can guide myself. I refuse to be guided by you!"

"Violet!" Nervously Olga interposed. "Never mind now, dear! Do sit down and have some breakfast! The eggs are getting cold."

"Quite so," said Nick, putting down his letters abruptly. "The coffee also. Olga, you may tear up all my correspondence. It's nothing but bills. Miss Campion, wouldn't you like to butter some toast for me? You do it better than anyone I know. And I'm deuced hungry."

She turned away half-mechanically, met his smile of cheery effrontery, and suddenly flashed him a smile in return.

"What a gross flatterer you are!" she said "Allegro, aren't you jealous? Which piece of toast do you fancy, Nick? Can I cut up some ham for you as well?"

The tension was over and Olga breathed again. Max continued his breakfast with an inscrutable countenance, finished it, and departed to the surgery.

Violet did not so much as glance up at his departure. She was wrangling with Nick over the best means of attacking a boiled egg with one hand.

There was no longer the faintest hint of tragedy in her demeanour. Yet Olga went about her own duties with a heart like lead. She was beginning to understand Max's attitude at last; and it filled her with misgiving.



CHAPTER XVI

SECRETS

The rest of that day was passed in so ordinary a fashion that Olga found herself wondering now and then if she could by any chance have dreamed the events of the night.

During the whole of the morning she was occupied with her jam-making, while Violet lazed in the garden. Nick had planned a motor-ride in the afternoon, and they went for miles, returning barely in time for dinner. Violet was in excellent spirits throughout, and seemed unconscious of fatigue, though Olga was so weary that she nearly fell asleep in the drawing-room after the meal. Max was in one of his preoccupied moods, and scarcely addressed a word to anyone. Only when he bade her good-night she had a curious feeling that his hand-grip was intended to convey something more than mere convention demanded. She withdrew her own hand very quickly. For some reason she was feeling a little afraid of Max.

Yet on the following morning, so casual was his greeting that she felt oddly vexed with him as well as with herself, and was even glad when Violet sauntered down late as usual and claimed his attention. Violet, it seemed, had decided to ignore his decidedly arbitrary treatment of her. She had also apparently given up smoking, for she made no further reference to her vanished cigarettes, a piece of docility over which Olga, who had known her intimately for some years, marvelled much.

She was obliged to leave her that afternoon to go to tea with an old patient of her father's who lived at the other end of the parish, Violet firmly refusing at the last moment to accompany her thither. Nick had promised to coach the boys at cricket practice that day, and Olga departed with a slight feeling of uneasiness and a determination to return as early as possible.

It was not, however, easy to curtail her visit. The patient was a garrulous old woman, and Olga was kept standing on the point of departure for a full half-hour. In the end she almost wrenched herself free and hurried home at a pace that brought her finally to her own door so hot and breathless that she was obliged to sit down and gasp in the hall before she could summon the strength to investigate any further.

Recovering at length, she went in search of Violet, and found her lounging under the limes in luxurious coolness with a book.

She glanced up from this at Olga's approach and smiled. There was a sparkle in her eyes that made her very alluring.

"Poor child! How hot you are! People with your complexion never ought to get hot. What have you been doing?"

She stretched a lazy hand of welcome, as Olga subsided upon the grass beside her.

"I've been hurrying back," Olga explained. "I thought you would be lonely."

"Oh dear, no! Not in the least." Violet glanced down at her book, a little ruminative smile curving the corners of her red mouth.

Olga peered at the volume. "What is it? Something respectable for once?"

"Not in the least. It is French and very highly flavoured. I daresay you wouldn't understand it, dear," said Violet. "You're such an ingenue."

Olga made a grimace. "I'd rather not understand some things," she said bluntly.

Violet uttered a low laugh. "Dear child, you are so unsophisticated! When are you going to grow up?"

"I am grown up," said Olga. "But I don't see the use of studying the horrid side of life. I think it's a waste of time."

"There we differ," smiled Violet. "Perhaps, however, it doesn't matter so much in your case. It is only women who travel and see the world who really need to be upon their guard."

Olga smiled also at that. "Shall I tell you a secret?" she said.

"Do, dear!" Violet instantly stiffened to attention. The smile went out of her face; Olga almost fancied that she looked apprehensive.

"It's quite a selfish one," she said, seeking instinctively to reassure her. "It's only that—perhaps—when the autumn comes—I may go to India with Nick."

"Oh! Really! My dear, how thrilling!" The words came with a rush that sounded as if the speaker were wholeheartedly relieved. The smile flashed back into Violet's face. She lay back in her chair with the indolent grace that usually characterized her movements. "Really!" she said again. "Tell me all about it."

Olga told her forthwith, painting the prospect in the brilliant colours with which her vivid imagination had clothed it, while Violet listened, interested and amused.

"You'll remember it's a secret," she wound up. "We haven't heard from Dad or Muriel yet, and of course nothing can be settled till we do. If either should object, of course it won't come off."

"Oh, I won't tell a soul," Violet promised. "How exciting if you go, Allegro! I wonder if you will get married."

Olga laughed light-heartedly. "As if I should waste my precious time like that! No, no! If I go, I shall fill up every minute of the time with adventures. I shall go tiger-hunting with Nick, and pig-sticking, and riding, and—oh, scores of things. Besides, they're nearly all Indians at Sharapura, and one couldn't marry an Indian!"

"Couldn't one?" said Violet. "Wouldn't you like to be a ranee, Allegro? I would!" She looked at Olga with kindling eyes. "Just think of it, dear! The power, the magnificence, the jewels! Oh, I believe I'd do anything for riches."

"Violet! I wouldn't!"

Olga spoke with strong emphasis and Violet laughed—a short, hard laugh. "Oh, no, you wouldn't, I know! You were born to be a slave. But I wasn't. I was born to be a queen, and a queen I'll be—or die!" She suddenly glanced about her with the peculiar, furtive look that Olga had noticed the day before. "That's why I wouldn't marry Max Wyndham," she said, "for all the riches in the world! He is the One Impossible."

Olga felt her colour rising. She made response with an effort. "Don't you like him, then?"

"Like him!" Violet's eyes came down to her. They expressed a fiery chafing at restraint that made her think of a wild creature caged. "My dear, what has that to do with it? I wouldn't marry a man who didn't worship me, whatever my own feelings might be; and it isn't in him to worship any woman. No, he would only grind me under his heel, and I should probably kill him in the end and myself too." A passionate note crept into the deep voice. It seemed to quiver on the verge of tragedy; and then again quite suddenly she laughed. "But I don't feel in the least murderous," she said. "In fact, I'm at peace with all the world just now. Listen, Allegro! You've told me your secret. I'll tell you one of mine. But you must swear on your sacred honour that you will never repeat it to a soul."

Olga was in a fashion used to this form of affidavit. She had been the recipient of Violet's secrets before. She gave the required pledge with the utmost simplicity, little dreaming how soon she was to repent of it.

Violet leaned towards her and spoke in low, confidential tones. "So amusing, dear! I know you won't mind for once. It's Hunt-Goring again. He really is too ridiculous for words. He has hired a yacht, you must know—a nice little steam-yacht, Allegro. He walked over this afternoon to tell me about it. Don't look so horrified! There's much worse to come." She laughed again under her breath. "He has asked me—in fact, persuaded me—to go for a little trip in it one day next week. Of course I said No at first; and then he said you could come too to make it proper; so I consented. I'm sure you won't mind for once, and a breath of sea air will do me good."

She laid a hand of careless coaxing upon Olga's shoulder. But Olga's demeanour was very far from acquiescent.

"But, Violet!" she exclaimed, "how could you possibly accept for me? I'm not going! No; indeed, I'm not! Neither must you. It's the maddest project I ever heard of! Whatever made you imagine for one moment that I would agree to go?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Allegro!" Violet sounded quite unmoved. "Of course you'll go, unless—" she smiled a trifle maliciously—"you mean me to go alone, as I certainly shall if you are going to be tiresome about it. You wouldn't like me to do that, I suppose?"

Olga gazed at her helplessly. "Violet, what am I to say to you? How could you and I go off for a whole day with that detestable man? Why, it—it would start everyone talking!"

"My dear, no one will know," said Violet with composure. "Haven't you sworn to keep it a dead secret? He won't talk and neither shall I. So, you see, it's all perfectly safe. Not that there would be anything improper about it in any case. He is as old as you and me put together,—older I should say."

"Oh, but he's such a fiend!" burst forth Olga. "You said you were going to give him up only the other night."

"When?" said Violet sharply.

Olga hesitated. It was the first time she had made direct reference to that midnight episode.

"When did I say that?" insisted Violet.

Half-reluctantly Olga made reply, while Violet leaned forward and listened intently. "The night before last. You came to my room late, don't you remember?"

Violet's eyes had a startled look. "Yes?" she breathed. "Yes? What else?"

Olga looked straight up at her. "Dear, I don't think we need talk about it, need we? You were not yourself. I think you were half-asleep. You had been smoking those hateful cigarettes."

"Ah, but tell me!" insisted Violet. "Why did I come to you? What did I say? Was—was Max there?"

"He came in," faltered Olga. "He—guessed you weren't well. He helped you back to your own room. Don't you remember?"

"Yes—yes—I remember!" Violet's brows were drawn with the effort; there was a look of dawning horror in her eyes. "I remember, Allegro!" she said, speaking rapidly. "He—he was very brutal to me, wasn't he? He made me tell him where to find the cigarettes, and then—and then—yes, he took them away. I've hated him ever since." Again that vindictive note sounded in her voice. "I won't bear brutality from any man," she said. "Do you know, if I didn't hate him, I believe I should be afraid of him? I know you are, Allegro."

"Perhaps; a little," Olga admitted.

"Ah! I knew it. He can do anything he likes with you. But I am different." She lifted her head proudly. "I am no man's slave," she said. "He thinks that he has only to speak, and I shall obey. He was never more mistaken in his life."

"But, Violet, he was only treating you as a patient," Olga protested. "And he only took the cigarettes because—"

"I know why he took them." Quickly Violet interrupted. "And remember this, Allegro! Whatever happens to me in the future you must never, never let him attend me again. I suffered more from his treatment than I have ever suffered before, and I can never go through it again. You understand?" She looked at Olga with eyes that had in them the memory of a great pain. "It was torture," she said. "He forced his will upon mine. He crushed me down, so that I was at his mercy. It was like an overpowering weight. I thought my heart would stop. I don't know—even now—how it was I didn't die."

"He gave you the pain-killer, dear," said Olga soothingly. "That was what made you well again."

"The pain-killer!" Violet gazed at her bewildered. "What is—the pain-killer?" she said.

Olga shook her head. "I don't know what it is. He wouldn't tell me. He calls it—sudden death."

Violet gave a great start. "Good heavens, Allegro! And he gave me that?"

"Only enough to make you sleep," explained Olga. "He gave me some the other day, when the heat upset me. I liked it."

Violet's eyes were glittering very strangely. "And you—came back again after it?" she said. "Allegro, are you—sure?"

"Of course," said Olga. "I don't know what you mean, dear. Of course I came back, or I shouldn't be here now."

"No—no, of course not!" Violet lay back in her chair, gazing straight up through the limes at the flawless August sky. "So that is why I didn't die," she said. "He only let me go—half-way. If I'd only had a little more—a little more—" She broke off suddenly and threw a quick side glance at Olga. "What queer creatures doctors are!" she said. "They spend their whole lives fighting, with the certainty that they are bound to be conquered in the end."

"They are splendid!" said Olga, with shining eyes.

"Oh, do you think so? I never can. If they fought suffering only, it would be a different thing. That I could admire. But to fight death—" Violet made a curious little gesture of the hands—"it seems to me like tilting at a windmill," she said. "Everyone must die sooner or later."

"But no one wants to go before his time," observed a cool voice behind them. "Or if he does, he's a shirker and deserves to be kicked."

Both girls started as Max strolled carelessly up, hands in pockets, and propped himself against a tree close by.

His eyes travelled over Olga's face as he did so. "You've been overheated," he remarked.

She pulled her hat forward with a nervous jerk. "Who can help it this weather?"

He grunted disapproval. "You never see me in that condition. Pray continue your oration, Miss Campion! It was not my intention to interrupt."

But Violet had suddenly reopened her book and buried herself therein.

Max twisted his neck and peered over. After a brief space he grunted again and relaxed against the tree.

"Do you read French?" Olga asked, feeling the silence to be slightly oppressive.

He laughed drily. "Not that sort. I have no taste for it."

"But you know the language?" Olga persisted, still striving against silence.

"I've studied it," said Max. He paused a moment; then, "The best fellow I ever knew was a Frenchman," he said.

She looked up at him, caught by something in his tone. "A friend of yours?"

He took off his hat with a reverence which she would have deemed utterly foreign to his nature. "Yes, a friend," he said. "Bertrand de Montville."

"Oh, did you know him?" exclaimed Olga. "Why did you never tell me before? I shall never forget how miserable I was because he didn't live to be reinstated in the French Army. But it's years ago now, isn't it?"

"Six years," said Max.

"Yes, I remember. How I should like to have known him! But I was at school then. And you knew him well?"

"I was with him when he died," he said.

"Oh!" said Olga, and then with a touch of shyness, "I'm sorry, Max."

"No," he said. "You needn't be sorry. He was no shirker. His time was up."

"But wasn't it a pity?" she said.

He smiled a little. "I don't think he thought so. He was happy enough—at the last."

"But if he had only been vindicated first!" she said.

"Do you think that matters?" Max's smile became cynical.

"Surely it would have made a difference to him?" she protested. "Surely he cared!"

He snapped his fingers in the air. "He cared just that."

Violet looked up suddenly from her book. "And you—did you care—just that too?"

He seemed to Olga to contract at the question. "I?" he said. "I had other things to think about. Life is too short for grizzling in any case. And I chanced to have my sister to attend to at the same time."

"You have a sister?" said Olga, swift to intervene once more.

He nodded. "Did I never tell you? She is married to Trevor Mordaunt the writer. Ever heard of him?"

"Why, yes! Nick knows him, I believe."

"Very likely. He has an immense circle of friends. He's quite a good sort," said Max.

"And where do they live?" asked Olga, with interest.

"In Suffolk chiefly. Mordaunt bought our old home and gave it to Chris—my sister—when they married. My elder brother manages the estate for him."

"How nice!" said Olga. "And what is your sister like?"

Max smiled. "She is my twin," he said.

"Oh! Like you then?" Olga looked slightly disappointed.

Max laughed. "Not in the least. Can you imagine a woman like me? I can't. She has red hair or something very near it. And there the resemblance stops. I'll take you to see her some day—if you'll come."

"Thank you," said Olga guardedly.

"Don't mention it!" said Max. "There are two kiddies also—a boy and a girl. It's quite a domestic establishment. I often go there when I want a rest. My brother-in-law is good enough to keep special rooms for the three of us."

"Is there another of you then?" asked Olga.

"Yes, another brother—Noel. By the way, he won't be going there again at present, for he sailed for Bombay to join his regiment a year ago. That's the sum complete of us." Max straightened himself with a faintly ironical smile. "We are a fairly respectable family nowadays," he observed, "thanks to Mordaunt who has a reputation to think of. But we are boring Miss Campion to extinction. Can't we talk of something more amusing?"

Violet threw back her head with a restless movement, but she did not meet his eyes. "I am accustomed to amusing myself," she said.

He stooped to pick up a marker that had fallen from her book. "It is a useful accomplishment," he observed, as he handed it to her, "for those who have time to cultivate it."

She raised her arms with the careless, unstudied grace of a wild creature. Her eyes were veiled.

"I assure you it is far more satisfying than tilting at windmills," she said.

Max straightened himself. There seemed to Olga something pitiless about him, a deadliness of purpose that made him cruel. And in that moment she became aware of a strong antagonism between these two that almost amounted to open hostility.

"A matter of opinion," said Max. "I suppose we each of us have our patent method of killing time."

Violet uttered an indolent laugh. "Yours is a very strenuous one," she observed. "I believe you imagine yourself invincible in your own particular line, don't you?"

"Not at present," said Max, with his twisted smile.

She laughed again, mockingly. "Irresistible then, shall we say?"

He had turned to go, but he paused at the question and looked back at her, grimly ironical. Olga had a feeling that the green eyes comprehended her also.

"No," he said, with extreme deliberation. "Not even that. But—since you ask me—the odds are certainly very greatly in my favour."

And with that he turned on his heel, still smiling, and sauntered away.

As he went, Violet stooped towards Olga with a face gone suddenly white, and grasped her arm.

"Remember, Allegro!" she said. "Not a word about Hunt-Goring—to anyone! Not one single tiny suspicion of a hint!"

And Olga, looking into her eyes, read terror in her soul.



CHAPTER XVII

THE VERDICT

"It's a difficult position," said Nick.

"It's a damnable position," said Max. He stared across the white table-cloth with eyes that brooded under down-drawn brows. "I don't anticipate any sudden development if I can keep her off that cursed opium. But—I'd give fifty pounds to have her people within reach."

"Do you know where they are?" said Nick.

Max shrugged his shoulders. "They are cruising about the Atlantic to give Mrs. Bruce, who is neurotic, a rest-cure. Of course, when I undertook to keep an eye on the girl, I never anticipated this. Her brother was anxious about her, I thought somewhat unnecessarily. It was that blackguard Hunt-Goring who precipitated matters. I've given him a pretty straight warning, though Heaven alone knows what effect it will have."

"What did you say to him?" questioned Nick.

"I said that I had just discovered that he had been giving her cigarettes that contained opium. I warned him that it was criminally unsafe, that her brain was peculiarly susceptible to drugs, and that he would probably cause her death if he persisted; also, that if he did I would see that he was held responsible. What more could I say?"

"That was fairly direct certainly," said Nick. "And he?"

"He asked me to dine," said Max.

Nick laughed. "And you didn't accept?"

"Would you have accepted?" Max turned on him almost savagely.

"I think I should," said Nick. "There's nothing like studying the enemy from close quarters. But go ahead! Tell me more! When do you expect her people back?"

"Possibly in a fortnight. They have been gone that time already—rather more. And they expected to make a month of it."

Nick nodded. "We ought to be able to hold the fort for that time. What did your friend Sir Kersley think?"

Max lifted one eyebrow. "What did he say to you about it?"

Nick struck a match for his cigarette with considerable dexterity. "About Violet—practically nothing. About her mother—a good deal."

"I wonder why." Max spoke somewhat curtly.

Nick lighted his cigarette with a whimsical expression. "You don't seem to have noticed what an excellent confidant I make," he said.

"Ah, I know you are safe." There was conviction in Max's tone. "But Kersley is such a reserved chap. And—that ancient affair ruined his life."

"I gathered that," said Nick. "As a matter of fact, I knew a little of the affair before we met. He had been a doctor in my old regiment. It was five years after he retired that I joined; but most of the fellows knew the story. It reached me one way or another. I was deuced sorry for him when I heard the truth. Most people out there were of the opinion that he had treated her badly—was, in fact, to a very great measure responsible for the tragedy."

"That of course was not so," said Max deliberately. "She was responsible from first to last. She knew of the taint in her veins. He did not—till he detected it."

"Rather hard on her!" remarked Nick.

"Would you have married her?" The green eyes fixed him with sudden stern intentness.

Nick blinked rapidly for a few seconds. "I daren't answer that question," he said at length. "You see, I'm not a doctor."

Max rose abruptly. "Are doctors the only beings whoever think of the next generation?" he asked bitterly.

"There is a saying," said Nick, "that 'Love conquers all things.'"

"Pshaw!" said Max. "It never conquered heredity."

"I withdraw the proposition," said Nick. "But, I say, Wyndham!" He paused.

"Well?" Max swung round aggressively with hands in his pockets.

"Suppose the woman you loved developed that disease—would you throw her over?" Nick spoke tentatively.

Max flung back his head and stared at the ceiling. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to know what you are made of," replied Nick with simplicity.

Max turned and slowly walked to the window. "Yes," he said, with his back turned, "I should."

Nick was silent.

After a moment Max glanced round at him. "You wouldn't, I suppose?"

"No," said Nick.

"You would marry her regardless of the consequences?"

"If I were an ordinary man—perhaps," said Nick. "If I were a doctor—" he paused—"if I were a doctor, Max," he said again with a sudden smile, "I think I should tackle the situation from another standpoint. Either way, if she loved me and I loved her, I would marry her. As to the consequences—there wouldn't be any."

Max grunted. "Of course you are the exception to every rule."

"Who told you that?" thrust in Nick.

"It's been dinned into me ever since I met you." Half-churlishly Max made reply, and turning fell to pacing the room with the measured tread of one trained to step warily.

"And you believe it?" Nick leaned back in his chair peering forth through eyes half-closed.

"I do—more or less."

"Thanks!" said Nick. "And how goes the courtship?"

Max frowned heavily, without speaking.

"Pardon my asking," said Nick, "and consider the question answered!"

Max stopped squarely in front of him. "It doesn't go," he said briefly.

Nick's glance darted over him for an instant. "What method have you been employing? Coercion? Persuasion? Indifference? Or strategy?"

Max's hands showed clenched inside his pockets. "I'm leaving her alone," he growled.

"Then change your tactics at once!" said Nick. "Try an advance!"

"That's just the mischief. In the present damnable state of affairs, I am powerless. Violet Campion is hating me pretty badly, and—she—is thinking it clever to follow suit. She is avoiding me like the plague."

"That's sometimes a good sign," said Nick thoughtfully.

"Not in this case. It only means she is afraid of me."

Nick's glance flashed up at him again. "For any special reason?"

"I have given her none."

"Violet again?" queried Nick.

"Probably."

Nick ruminated. "You don't think it advisable to tell her how things are?"

"I?" The brief word sounded almost hostile. Max resumed his pacing on the instant. "I'm not an utter brute, Ratcliffe," he said, "whatever I may appear."

Nick sent a cloud of smoke upwards. "Would you call me a brute if I told her?" he asked.

"Yes, I should." Curt and prompt came the answer. "What is more, I won't have it done."

"She is a sensible little soul," contended Nick.

"She may be. But it would increase the difficulties a hundredfold. The girl herself would probably suspect something, and that would almost inevitably precipitate matters. No, the only possible course is to leave things alone for the present. The symptoms are slight, and though it is impossible to say from moment to moment what will happen, the chances are that if we can keep Hunt-Goring from doing any further mischief, the disease may remain in a stationary condition for some time. In that case you may manage to get Olga away on this tom-fool expedition of yours to India before any serious development takes place."

"I see," said Nick. "And you are convinced that a serious development is inevitable?"

"Absolutely." Max came strolling back from the window with eyes fixed and far-seeing. "It is as plain as a pike-staff to any professional man. Kersley detected it at once—as I knew he would; and that was before the midnight episode in Olga's room. Yes, it's bound to come. It may be gradual. It may even take the form of paralysis. But with her temperament I don't think that very likely. It will probably come suddenly as a sequel to some shock or violent agitation. But come—sooner or later—it must."

He spoke slowly, with the deliberation of absolute certainty. Reaching the mantelpiece he lodged himself against it and smoked with his eyes on the ceiling.

Nick watched him with a veiled scrutiny from the depths of his chair. "So that is the verdict," he said at last.

Max nodded without speaking.

"And how long have you known?"

"About a month."

"But you knew them before then?"

Max looked down at him with a slight gesture that passed unexplained. "As long as I have known the Ratcliffes," he said.

"It must have been something of a shock to you," suggested Nick.

Max's jaw hardened. "I was infinitely more interested in her when I knew," he said.

"Really?" said Nick.

"Yes, really." Max spoke with finality. "I assure you I am not impressionable," he added a moment later with the cynical twist of the lips that Olga knew so well. "And I never play with fire. That form of amusement doesn't attract me."

A sudden humorous glitter shone between Nick's half-closed eyelids. "But even serious people burn their fingers sometimes," he observed. "I presume you haven't proposed yet?"

"Yes, I have." Max spoke with dogged assertiveness.

Nick jerked upright. "The deuce you have!"

"You needn't excite yourself," Max assured him grimly. "We are not officially engaged yet—or likely to be. You needn't stick your spoke in. She knows I shan't marry her against her will."

"Oh, that's settled, is it?" Nick's eyes flashed over him with lightning rapidity.

"It is." Max began to smile. "And the marriage will take place some time before the end of next year."

The door opened abruptly while he was speaking, but he finished his sentence with extreme deliberation in spite of the fact that it was Olga who entered,—Olga, flushed and eager, vivid, throbbing with excitement. If she heard his words she paid no heed to them, but broke at once into breathless speech.

"Oh, Nick, it's the post! It's the post! A letter from Dad and another from Muriel; both for you!"

Nick stretched out his hand to her. "Come over here, kiddie! We'll read them together."

She sprang to him, knelt beside him, and warmly hugged him. Max remained propped against the mantelpiece, looking on, ignored by both.

"Muriel's first!" commanded Nick; and, with hands that shook, Olga slit open the envelope.

He put his arm about her shoulders as she withdrew the sheet and opened it out. "Yes, you can read it too. I know what's in it, bless her heart!"

So together they read the closely-written pages. There was silence in the room as they did so, broken only by the crackling of the paper, while Max Wyndham kept a motionless watch, his shaggy brows drawn close.

Suddenly Olga lifted her face. "Oh, Nick, isn't she a darling? I—I—it makes me feel such a beast!"

Nick's hand pinched her cheek in answer. His lips twitched a little, but he did not speak or raise his eyes.

She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. "I won't read any more, Nick. It's too private. May I open Dad's?"

He took his wife's letter between his fingers and dexterously folded it. "All right, Olga mia! Let us hear the verdict of the great Dr. Jim!"

He glanced up at Max with the words and instantly looked away.

Olga had apparently forgotten his very existence. She opened her father's letter still in quivering haste, and again there was a silence of several seconds while they read.

It was broken in a fashion which not one of the three anticipated. Quite suddenly Olga's lips began to quiver. She raised her head with the agitated gesture of one straining for self-control; and then in a moment the tears were running down her cheeks, and she covered her face and sobbed.

"Kiddie! Kiddie!" remonstrated Nick.

But it was Max who stooped and swiftly lifted her, holding her against his heart, stroking the fair hair with his steady capable hand. And surely there was magic in his touch, for almost immediately her weeping ceased. She looked up with slightly startled eyes, and drew herself gently but quite definitely from him.

"Thank you," she said, with a quaint touch of dignity. "You're very kind. Nick dear, I'm sorry. I—I'm all right now. Dad's very sweet to put it like that, pretending he doesn't mind a bit. I don't know how ever I shall say good-bye to him."

"You are really going then?" said Max.

She looked at him with a fleeting smile. "Yes, really!" she said.

"I congratulate you," he said.

Nick chuckled. "He is pretending he doesn't mind, too, Olga."

Olga flushed a little. "Oh, Max never pretends," she said. "Do you, Max?"

He smiled in his grim fashion. "It is not for me to contradict you," he said. "Permit me to congratulate you instead, and to hope that the East will not take as great liberties with your complexion as it has with Nick's."

"I'd rather be like Nick than anyone else in the world," she declared, with one arm wound about her hero's neck.

"Curious, isn't it?" grinned Nick.

"Almost incredible!" said Max.

"But quite true!" asserted Olga with vehemence.

Max swung around with his hands in his pockets, and sauntered to the door. Reaching it, he glanced back for a moment at the eager, girlish face, unperturbed, inscrutable.

"Strange as it may seem," he said, "I personally would rather that you remained like yourself."

"What cheek!" said Olga, as the door shut.

"Oh, isn't he allowed to say that?" enquired Nick.

She nestled to him, albeit half in protest. "Do let's talk about important things!" she said.

And Nick at once took the hint.



CHAPTER XVIII

SOMETHING LOST

Had Olga been a little less engrossed with the all-absorbing prospect that had just opened before her, she might have regarded as somewhat unusual the fact that Violet made no further mention of the proposed trip with Major Hunt-Goring during the week that followed. But, such was her preoccupation, she had even ceased to remember his existence. Little more than six weeks lay between her and the great adventure to which she was pledged, and she had already commenced her preparations. A visit to town would of course be inevitable, but this could not take place till Muriel's return at the end of the month. Nevertheless Olga, being woman to the core, found many things to do at home, and immersed herself in sewing with a zest that provoked Nick to much mirth.

Violet watched her lazily, with occasional offers to help which were seldom meant or taken seriously.

"I believe I shall come after you, Allegro," she said once. "It will be very dull without you."

"You know you are never dull in the shooting season," was Olga's sensible reply. "You never have time to think of me then."

"Quite true, dear," Violet admitted. "I wonder what sort of crowd Bruce will collect this year, and if any of them will want to marry me. He is always furiously angry when that happens. I can't imagine why. It amuses me," said Violet, with a yawn.

"Perhaps he doesn't want you to get married," suggested Olga.

"Apparently not. And yet I am sure he would be thankful to be rid of me. We never agree." The beautiful eyes gleamed mischievously. "I suppose he will expect me to marry a husband of his selection by-and-bye. He is very mediaeval in some things."

"I don't believe you ever mean to marry at all," said Olga.

"Oh, yes, indeed I do!" Violet uttered her soft, low laugh. "But I am mediaeval too, Allegro. Have you never noticed? I am waiting for the first man who is brave enough to run away with me."

It was on the day following this conversation that she prevailed upon Olga to leave her numerous occupations for an hour or so and motor her over to Brethaven to pay another visit to her old nurse, Mrs. Briggs. Nick wished to go over to Redlands to sort some papers, and offered his company as far as his own gates.

"You can walk to 'The Ship' from there," he said to Olga. "It's only half a mile, and after that you can run about the shore and amuse yourselves till I am ready to go back."

"Don't get up to mischief!" said Max briefly.

Violet gave him a quick look from under her lashes, but said no word.

It was a hot morning with a hint of thunder in the atmosphere. With Olga at the wheel, they set off soon after breakfast, leaving Max pumping his bicycle at the surgery-door with grim energy. He was going to the cottage-hospital that morning, a fact which left the motor at liberty till the afternoon.

Mile after mile of dusty road slid by, and Olga, with her heart in the future, sang softly to herself for sheer lightness of heart. She had ceased to trouble about Max, since he, quite obviously, had no intention of obtruding himself upon her. The problem—if problem there were—was evidently one that would keep until her return from India, and Olga was child enough to feel that that event was far too remote to trouble her now.

So, with a gay spirit, she piloted her two friends on that summer morning. No presentiment of evil touched her, no cloud was in her sky. Gaily she sped along the sunny road, little dreaming that that same sun that so gladdened her was to set upon the last of her youth.

The car was in a good mood also, and they hummed merrily past the little stone church of Brethaven and up to the great iron gate of Redlands just as the clock in the tower struck ten.

"Good business!" commented Nick, as he descended to open the gate. "That gives me two hours and a half. Don't be later than twelve-thirty, Olga mia, for starting back."

Olga promised, as she dexterously turned the car and ran in up the drive. He sprang upon the step, and so she brought him to his own door.

"Good-bye, Nick!" she said then, lifting her bright face.

He bent and lightly kissed her. "Good-bye! Don't go and get drowned, either of you, for my sake! Yes, you can leave the car here. It won't rain at present."

He stood on his own step and watched them go, with a motherly smile on his wrinkled face.

"Bless their hearts!" he murmured, as he finally turned away. "I'll swear it's all a mistake. She looks like a queen this morning; and as for Olga, if she has really given her heart to that ugly doctor chap I have never yet seen a woman in love."

He entered the house with the words, and straightway dismissed them from his mind.

"We will go to the shore first," Violet decreed. "Mrs. Briggs won't be expecting us so early. I hear that some more of the Priory land has been slipping into the sea. We must go and see it."

So to the shore they went. The slip was not a serious one. They made their way to the spot over loose sand and rocks, and dropped down in a sandy hollow to rest.

"Poor old Priory!" said Violet. "It's sure to be swallowed up like the rest some day. I wonder if I shall live to see it."

"Oh, surely not!" said Olga.

Violet laughed. "Do you think I am destined to die young then?"

"I can't imagine you dying or growing old," said Olga, with simplicity.

"My dear, what gross flattery!" Violet laughed again, her eyes upon the glittering sea. "Immortal youth! How divine it sounds! Allegro, I should hate to be old." She stretched out her arms to the sky-line. "I want to keep young for ever," she said. "Do you really think I shall? I sometimes think—" she paused.

"What?" said Olga.

She turned round to her with a little gesture of confidence. "I sometimes have a feeling, Allegro, that I must be getting old or dull or plain already. Men don't make love to me so much as they did."

"My dear, what nonsense!" exclaimed Olga, with burning cheeks.

"No, listen! It's true." There was almost a sound of tears in the deep voice. "It's quite true, Allegro. I am not so attractive as I was. I feel it. I know it. Something is lost. I don't know what it is. It went from me that night—you remember!—and it hasn't returned. I thought it was my soul at first. I still sometimes wonder." She laid a hand that quivered and clung upon Olga's arm. "And the dreadful part of it is, Allegro, that Max knows. He looks at me with the most deadly knowledge in his eyes—such wicked eyes they are, all green and piercing, and so cruel—so cruel."

A great shiver went through her, and then all in a moment—before Olga could utter a word—her mood had changed. She leaped suddenly to her feet, all sparkling animation and excitement.

"See! There is a yacht just come round the headland! How close it is! Oh, Allegro, wouldn't you love to go on the water this stifling day?"

"An easy wish to gratify!" observed a voice close to them.

Olga turned with a violent start. Violet merely glanced over her shoulder and smiled. Hunt-Goring, stepping lightly in canvas shoes, came airily forward over the sand, and bowed low.

"I am the deus ex machina," he said. "The yacht is mine—and entirely at your service."

Olga's face was crimson. She got quickly to her feet and stood stiffly silent.

Hunt-Goring was looking remarkably elegant, attired in white drill with a yachting cap which he carried in his hand.

"I seem to have come at an opportune moment," he said. "Really, the fates are more than kind. The yacht is making for Brethaven jetty to take me on board. If you ladies will come with me for a couple of hours' cruise, I need scarcely say how charmed I shall be."

He was looking at Violet as he spoke, and she made instant and impulsive reply. "Of course we will! It will be too delicious—the very thing I was longing for. What lucky chance sent you our way, I wonder?"

She gave him her hand, which he took with a gallantry that sent a quiver of disgust through Olga. With a sharp effort she spoke, hurriedly, nervously, but very much to the point.

"It's very good of you, but we can't possibly come. We must be getting back. You are going to see Mrs. Briggs, you know, Violet. And we promised Nick we wouldn't be late starting home from Redlands."

Violet's quick frown appeared like a sudden cloud. "My dear child, what nonsense! As if Mrs. Briggs mattered! And as for Nick, he won't be ready for more than two hours. You heard him say so."

But Olga stood her ground. "I don't see how we can possibly go—anyhow without telling Nick first. In fact, I would rather not."

Hunt-Goring was smiling—the smile of the man who has heard it all before. "Miss Olga is evidently afflicted with a tender conscience," he observed. "But if you really have two hours to spare and really care to go on the water, I do not see how Nick can reasonably object. Of course I have no desire to persuade you. I only beg that you will follow your inclinations."

"Of course!" said Violet quickly. "And we are coming—at least I am. Allegro, you can please yourself, but it will be very horrid of you if you won't come too."

Olga's pale eyes sparkled. "That depends on one's point of view," she said, with a touch of warmth. "You know what I think about it. I told you the other day."

"My dear, that is too ridiculous," declared Violet. "I never heard such rubbish in my life. Besides, it's only for a couple of hours. Major Hunt-Goring," appealing suddenly, "do tell her how absurd she is! What possible objection could there be to our going out with you for a morning's cruise?"

"None, I should say," smiled Hunt-Goring. "But doubtless Miss Olga has made up her mind and discussion would be only a waste of time. Shall we start?"

"Yes, we will!" agreed Violet impetuously. "I am simply dying for a breath of sea air. Ah, do give me a cigarette! I finished my last this morning."

And then Olga's eyes were opened, and she knew the reason of this man's ascendancy over her friend. The certainty went through her like the stab of a sword, and hard upon it came the realization that to desert Violet at that moment would be an act of treachery. So strong was the conviction that she did not dare to question it. It was as if a voice had spoken in her soul, and blindly she obeyed.

"I will come too," she said.

Violet beamed upon her instantly. "Well done, Allegro! I thought you couldn't be so unkind as to stay behind when I wanted you."

"A woman's second thoughts are always best," observed Hunt-Goring.

She looked him straight in the eyes. "I am going for Miss Campion's sake alone," she said.

He smiled at her with covert insolence. "You are a true woman," he said.

"Is that intended for a compliment or otherwise?" asked Violet.

"Otherwise, I think," said Olga, in a very low voice.

"Acquit me at least of idle flattery!" said Hunt-Goring, with a laugh.



CHAPTER XIX

THE REVELATION

It was certainly a perfect day for a cruise. The sea lay blue and still as a lake, so clear that the rocks made purple shadows in its crystal depths. Under any other circumstances, Olga would have revelled in the beauty of it, but there was no enjoyment for her that day. She stood on the deck of the yacht as she steamed away from the jetty, and watched the uneven shore recede with a feeling of impotence that was not without an element of fear. For it seemed to her that she was a prisoner, looking her last upon the liberty of her youth.

The vessel was of no inconsiderable size and moved swiftly through the still water, cleaving her way like a bird through space. It was not long before they passed the jutting headland that hid the little fishing-village from view; but Olga still stood motionless at the rail, fighting down the cold dread at her heart.

She could hear Violet's voice on the other side of the deck, gaily chattering to Hunt-Goring. The scent of their cigarettes reached her, and she clenched her hands. She was sure now that he had been supplying Violet with them secretly. She had been too deeply engrossed with her own affairs to think of this before, and bitterly did she blame herself for this absorption.

Poor Olga! It was the prelude to a life-long self-reproach.

They were heading out to sea now, running smoothly into the glaring sunshine. It poured upon her mercilessly where she stood, but she was scarcely aware of it. She gazed backward at the shore with eyes that saw not.

Suddenly a soft voice spoke at her shoulder. "What! Still sulking? Do you know you are remarkably like a boy?"

She turned with a great start, meeting the eyes she feared. "I don't know what you mean," she said, drawing sharply back.

He laughed his smooth, easy laugh. "I mean that you are behaving like a cub in need of chastisement. Do you seriously think I am going to put up with it—from a chit like you?"

She looked him up and down with a single flashing glance of clear scorn. "How much do you think I am going to put up with?" she said.

He leaned his arms upon the rail in an attitude of supreme complacence. "I may be the villain of the piece," he observed, "but I have no desire to be melodramatic. I have come over here to talk to you quietly and sensibly about the future. Of course if you—"

"What have you to do with my future?" she thrust in fiercely. She would have given all she had to be calm at that moment, but calmness was beyond her. Though her fear had utterly departed, she was quivering with indignation from head to foot.

Hunt-Goring kept his face turned downwards towards the swirl of water that leaped by them. He was quite plainly prepared for the question.

"Since you ask me," he responded coolly, "I should say—a good deal."

"In what way?" she demanded.

She could see that he was still smiling—that maddening, perpetual smile, and she thought that her sheer abhorrence of the man would choke her. But with all her throbbing strength she held herself in check.

He did not answer her at once. She waited, compelling herself to silence.

At length quite calmly he turned and faced her. "Well now, Olga, listen to me," he said. "I am a good deal older than you are, but I am still capable of a certain amount of foolishness. What I am now going to say to you, I have wanted to say for some time, but you have been so absurdly shy with me that—as you perceive—I have been obliged to resort to strategy to obtain a hearing."

He paused, for Olga had suddenly gripped the rail as if she needed support. Her face was deathly, but out of it the pale eyes blazed in fierce questioning.

"What do you mean?" she said. "What strategy?"

He laid his hand upon hers and gripped it hard. "Don't be hysterical!" he said. "I am paying you the compliment of treating you like a woman of sense."

She shrank away from him, but he continued to grip her hand with brutal force till the pain of it reached her consciousness and sent the blood upwards to her face. Then he let her go.

"Yes," he said coolly, "I have been laying my mine for some time now. It has not been particularly easy or particularly pleasant, but since I considered you worth a little trouble I did not grudge it. The long and the short of it is this: I fell in love with you last winter. You may remember that I caught your brothers poaching on my ground, and you came to me to beg them off. Well, I granted your request—for a consideration. You may remember the consideration also. You had been at great pains to snub me until that episode. I made you pay for the snubbing. I imposed a fine—do you remember?"

"I have loathed you ever since," she broke in.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I know that. That was what started the mischief. I am so constituted that resistance is but fuel to the flame. In that respect I believe I am not unique. It is a by no means remarkable trait of the masculine character, you will find. Well, I made you pay. It was to be two kisses, was it not? You gave me one, and then for some reason you fled. That left you in my debt."

"It is a debt I will never pay!" she declared passionately. "I will die first!"

He laughed. There was something in his eyes—something intolerable—that made her avert her own in spite of herself. In desperation she glanced around for Violet.

"She is asleep," said Hunt-Goring.

She turned on him then like a fury. "You mean you have drugged her!" she cried.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Not to that extent. You can wake her if you wish, but I think you had better hear me out first—for her sake also. It is better for all parties that we should come to a clear understanding."

With immense effort she controlled herself. "Very well. What do you wish me to understand?"

"Simply this," said Hunt-Goring. "I know very well that your engagement to Wyndham was simply a move in the game, and that you have not the faintest intention of marrying him. That is so, I think?"

She was silent, taken by surprise.

"I thought so," he continued. "You see, I am not so easy to hoodwink. And now I am going to act up to my villain's role and break that engagement of yours—which is no engagement. To put it quite shortly and comprehensibly—I am going to marry you myself."

She stared at him in gasping astonishment. "You!" she said. "You!"

He laughed into her eyes of horror. "You will soon get used to the idea," he said. "You see, Wyndham doesn't really want you, and I do. That is the one extenuating circumstance of my villainy. I want you so badly that I don't much care what steps I take to get you. And so long as you continue to hate me as heartily as you do now, just by so much shall I continue to want you. Is that quite plain?"

She was still staring at him in open repulsion. "And you think I would marry you?" she said breathlessly. "You think I would marry you?"

"I think you will have to," said Hunt-Goring, with his silky laugh. "I love you, you see." He added, after a moment, "I shan't be unkind to you if you behave reasonably. I am well off. I can give you practically anything you want. Of course you will have to give also; but that goes without saying. The point is, how soon can we be married?"

"Never!" she cried vehemently. "Never! Never!"

He looked at her, and again her eyes fell; but she continued, nevertheless, with less of violence but more of force.

"I don't know what you mean by suggesting such a thing. I think you must be quite mad—as I should be if I took you seriously. I am not going to marry you, Major Hunt-Goring. I have never liked you, and I never shall. You force me to speak plainly, and so I am telling you the simple truth."

"Thank you," said Hunt-Goring. "Well, now, let us see if I can persuade you to change your mind."

"You will never do that," she said quickly.

He smiled. "I wonder! Anyhow, let me try! It makes no difference to you that I love you?"

"No," she told him flatly. "None whatever. In fact, I don't believe it."

"I will prove it to you one day," he said. "But let that pass now, since it has no weight with you. I quite realize that I shall not persuade you to marry me for your own sake or for mine. But—I think you may be induced to consider the matter for the sake of—your friend."

"In what way?" Breathlessly she asked the Question. for again it was as if a warning voice spoke within her, bidding her to go warily.

He paused a moment. Then: "Has it never struck you that there is something rather—peculiar—about her?" he asked suavely.

She brought her eyes back to his in sharp apprehension. "Peculiar? No, never! What do you mean?"

"Are you quite sure of that?" he insisted.

She began to falter in spite of herself. "Never, until—until quite lately. Never till you gave her those—abominable—cigarettes."

"Believe me, there is no harm whatever in those cigarettes," he said. "I smoke them myself constantly. Try them for yourself if you don't believe me. They contain a minute quantity of opium, it is true, but only sufficient to soothe the nerves. No, those cigarettes are not responsible. That peculiarity which you have recently begun to notice is due to quite another cause. Surely you must have always known that she was different from other girls. Have you never thought her excitable, even unaccountable in some of her actions? Has she never told you of strange fancies, strange dreams? And her restlessness, her odd whims, her insatiable craving for morbid horrors, have you never taken note of these?"

He spoke with deliberate emphasis, narrowly watching the effect of his words.

Olga's hands were gripped fast together; her wide eyes searched his face.

"Oh, tell me what you mean!" she entreated, a piteous quiver in her voice. "Tell me plainly what you mean!"

"I will," he said. "Violet Campion's mother was a homicidal maniac. She killed her husband—this girl's father—in a fit of madness one night three months after their marriage. It happened in India, and was put down to native treachery in order to hush it up, but it was well known that no native was responsible for it. During the six months that followed, she was kept under restraint, hopelessly insane. It was in her blood—the worst form of insanity known. At the birth of the child she died. That will explain to you my exact meaning, and if you need corroboration you can go to Max Wyndham for it. She has begun to develop symptoms of her mother's complaint. All her peculiarities arise from incipient madness!"

"Oh, no!" Olga whispered, with fingers straining against each other. "It's not possible! It's not true!"

"It is absolutely true," he said. "And you know it is true. At the same time it is just possible that the disease may be arrested. Wyndham himself will tell you this. We discussed the matter quite recently. It may be arrested even for years if nothing happens to precipitate it. Of course her people will never let her marry, but she is not, I fancy, the sort of young woman to whom wedded bliss is essential. Naturally, all this has been kept from her. There are not many people who know of it. I am one, because I knew her mother both before and after her marriage, being a young subaltern at the time and stationed at the very place where the tragedy occurred. Wyndham is another, being the protege of Kersley Whitton to whom the girl's mother was engaged and who was the first to discover the fatal tendency. She married Campion mainly out of pique because Whitton threw her over. He was a man of sixty, and his son was grown up at the time. I have often thought that he behaved with remarkable magnanimity when he adopted the child of the woman who had murdered his father."

Olga shivered suddenly and violently. The horror of the tale had turned her cold from head to foot. She no longer questioned the truth of it. She knew beyond all doubting that it was true.

The sun still shone gloriously, and the yacht slipped on through the shining water, throwing up the sparkling foam as she went. But to Olga the whole world had become a place of darkness and of the shadow of death. Whichever way she turned, she was afraid.

"Oh, why have you told me?" she said at last. "Why—why have you told me?"

"Can't you guess?" said Hunt-Goring.

"No!" Yet her breath came sharply with the word. If she did not guess, she feared.

He looked down at her for the first time unsmiling. "I have told you," he said, "that I mean to marry you, and—in keeping with the part of villain which you have assigned to me—I don't much care what I do to get you."

She met his look with all her quivering courage. "But what has this to do with that?" she said.

She saw his face harden, become cruel. "Miss Campion is nothing to me," he said brutally. "Either you give me your most sacred promise to marry me before the end of the year, or—I shall tell her the truth here and now, as I have just told it to you."

She shrank as though he had struck her. "Oh, you couldn't!" she cried out wildly. "You couldn't! No man could be such a fiend!"

He came a step nearer to her, and suddenly his eyes glowed with a fire that scorched her to the soul. "You had better not tempt me!" he said. "Or I may do that—and more also!"

She put her hands up to shield her face from his look, but he caught them suddenly and savagely into his own, overbearing her resistance with indomitable mastery.

"Promise me!" he said. "Promise me!"

His lips were horribly near her own. She strained away from him tensely, with all her strength. "I will not!" she panted. "I will not!"

"You shall!" he declared furiously. "Do you think I will be beaten by a child like you? I tell you, you shall!"

But still desperately she struggled against him, repeating voicelessly, "I will not! I will not!"

He gripped her fast, holding her face up mercilessly to his own. "You think I won't do it?" he said.

"I know you won't!" she gasped back. "You couldn't! No man—no man could!"

"I swear to you that I will!" he said.

"No!" she breathed. "No! No! No!"

She saw the fury on his face suddenly harden and turn cold. Abruptly he set her free.

"Very well," he said. "Marry you I will. But first I will show you that I am a man of my word."

He swung round upon his heel to leave her. But in that instant the warning voice cried out again in Olga's soul, compelling her to swift action. She sprang after him, caught his arm, clinging to it with all her failing strength.

"You will not!" she gasped out in an agony of entreaty. "You could not! You shall not!"

He stopped, looking down without pity into her face of supplication. "Then give me that promise!" he said.

She shook her head. "No, not that—not that!"

"Why not?" he insisted. "Are you hoping to catch your red-haired doctor? You are not likely to secure anyone else, and he will probably prove elusive."

She flinched at the gibing words, but still she held him back. "No, no! I don't want to marry anyone. I have always said so."

"Have you said so to him?" asked Hunt-Goring.

She was silent, but the quick blood ran to her temples betraying her.

"I thought not," he said. "So that is the explanation, is it? That is why you will have none of me, eh?"

"Oh, how can you be so hateful?" she cried vehemently.

He laughed. "You won't let me be anything else, I assure you I would be amiability itself if you would permit. Well now, which is it to be? You say you don't want to marry anyone. That, we have seen, is only a figure of speech. But since the red-haired doctor is not wanting you and I am—"

"You are wrong!" she broke in, with sudden heat.

Some hidden fire within her had kindled into flame at his words; it burned with a fierce strength. For the first time she challenged him without any sense of fear.

He looked at her in unfeigned astonishment. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are wrong!" she said again, and it was as if some inner force inspired the words. She spoke without conscious volition of her own. "Max Wyndham has asked me to marry him—and marry him I will!"

She never knew with what triumphant finality she spoke, but the effect of her words was instant and terrible. Even as they left her lips, she saw the dark blood rise in a wave to his forehead, swelling the veins there to purple cords. His eyes became suddenly bloodshot and glittered devilishly. His hands clenched, and she almost thought he was going to strike her.

With a desperate effort she faced him without a tremor, instinctively aware that courage alone could save her.

For fully thirty seconds he said no word, and as they slipped away she saw the dreadful wave of passion gradually recede. But even then he continued to glare at her till with a quiet movement she took her hand from his arm and turned away.

Then, as she stood at the deck-rail, at last he spoke. "So that is your last word upon the subject?"

She answered him briefly, "Yes."

She kept her face turned seawards. She was suddenly and overwhelmingly conscious of bodily weakness. All her strength seemed to have gone into that one great effort, that at the moment had seemed no effort at all. She felt as if she were going to faint, and gripped herself with all her quivering resolution, praying wildly that he might not notice.

He did not notice. For a few seconds more he stood behind her, while she waited, palpitating, for his next move. Then, very suddenly he turned and left her.

And Olga, instantly relaxing from a tension too terrible to be born, covered her face with her hands and shuddered over and over again in sick disgust.

It was many minutes before she recovered, minutes during which her mind seemed to be almost too stunned for thought. Very gradually at length she began to remember the words she had last uttered, the weapon she had used; and numbly she wondered at herself.

No, she had scarcely acted on her own initiative. Her action had been prompted by some force of which till that moment she had had no knowledge, a force great enough to lift her above her own natural impulses, great enough to help her in her sore strait, and to make all other things seem of small importance.

What would Max have said to that emphatic declaration of hers? But surely it was Max, and none other, who had inspired it. Surely—surely—ah, what was this that was happening to her? What magic was at work? She suddenly lifted her face to the dazzling summer sky. A brief giddiness possessed her—and passed. She was as one over whom a mighty wave had dashed. She came up from it, breathless, trembling, yet with a throbbing ecstasy at her heart such as she had never known before. For the impossible had happened to her. She realized it now. She—Olga Ratcliffe, the ordinary, the colourless, the prosaic—was caught in the grip of the Unknown Power, that Immortal Wonder which for lack of a better name men call Romance. And she knew it, she exulted in it, she stretched out her woman's hands to grasp it, as a babe will seek to grasp the sunshine, possessing and possessed.

In that moment she acknowledged that the bitter struggle through which she had just come had been indeed worth while. It had exhausted her, terrified her; but it had shown her her heart in such a fashion as to leave no room for doubt or misunderstanding. Even yet she quivered with the rapture of the revelation. It thrilled her through and through. For she knew that Max Wyndham reigned there in complete and undisputed possession. No other man had entered before him, or would ever enter after....

Slowly, reluctantly, she came back from her Elysium. She descended to earth and faced again the difficulties of the way.

She opened her eyes upon the yacht still running seawards, and decided that they must turn. She wondered if Hunt-Goring had regained his self-control, if he were ashamed of himself, if possibly he might bring himself to apologize, and what she should say to him if he did. Her heart felt very full. She knew she could not be very severe with him if he were really repentant.

Then she remembered Violet,—her friend....



CHAPTER XX

THE SEARCH

For the third time Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly one. He jumped to his feet with a grimace.

"What on earth are those girls up to?"

Rapidly he locked drawer after drawer of his writing-table, gathered up a sheaf of papers, and turned to go.

The library at Redlands overlooked a wide lawn that led through shrubberies to the edge of the cliff, up the face of which had been cut a winding path. He paused a moment considering this. Would they return from the shore by that way? If so, he would miss them if he went in search of them by the drive.

Impatiently he turned back towards the window, and in that moment he caught sight of a flying figure crossing the lawn,—Olga, with a white, strained face, hatless, dishevelled, gasping.

Nick's one arm fought with the heavy window and flung it up. In another second he had leaped out to meet her. She ran to him, stumbled ere she reached him, fell against him, helpless, sobbing, exhausted.

He held her up. "What is it? Violet? Is she drowned?" he questioned rapidly.

"No—no!" She gasped the words as she lay against his shoulder.

"All right then! Take your time! Come and sit down!" said Nick.

He supported her to the low window-sill, and she sank down upon it, still clinging to him with agonized gasping, voiceless and utterly spent.

He stood beside her, strongly grasping her hand. "Keep quite quiet!" he said. "It's the quickest in the end."

She obeyed him, as was her custom, leaning her head against him till gradually her breath came back to her and speech became possible.

"Oh, Nick!" she whispered then. "That any man—could be—so vile!"

"What man?" said Nick sharply.

"Major Hunt-Goring."

He stooped swiftly and looked into her face. "What has he been doing?"

"I'll tell you!" she said. "I'll tell you!"

And then, arrested possibly by something in that flashing regard, she raised herself and looked straight up at him.

"I can only tell you everything," she said, "if you will promise me not to go and quarrel with him—in fact, not to go near him. Will you promise, Nick?"

"I will not," said Nick.

"You must!" she said. "You must!"

"I will not," he said again.

She held his hand imploringly. "Not if I ask you—not if I beg you—"

"Not in any case," he said. "Now tell me the truth as quickly as you can."

She shook her head. "Nick, I can't. He is quite unscrupulous. He might kill you!"

"So he might," said Nick grimly. "He's crazy enough for anything. What has he been doing?"

"Is he crazy?" she said, catching at the word.

"He's drug-ridden," said Nick, "and devil-ridden too upon occasion. Now tell me!"

She began to cry with her head against his arm. "Nick,—I'm frightened! I can't!"

"Oh, damn!" said Nick to the world at large. And then he gently released himself and knelt beside her. "Look here, Olga darling! There's nothing to frighten you. I'm not a headlong fool. There! Dry your eyes, and be sensible! What's the beast been up to? Made love to you, has he?"

His bony hand grasped hers again very vitally, very reassuringly. Almost insensibly she yielded herself to his control. Quiveringly she began to tell him of the morning's happenings.

Perhaps it was as well that she did not see Nick's face as she did so, or she might have found it difficult to continue. As it was she spoke haltingly, with many pauses, describing to him Hunt-Goring's arrival and invitation, her own dilemma, her final surrender.

"I couldn't help it, Nick," she said, still fast clinging to his hand. "I couldn't let her go alone."

"Go on," said Nick.

And then she told him of Hunt-Goring's overture, her own sick repulsion for the man, his persistence, his brutality.

At that abruptly Nick broke in. "Before you go any farther—has he ever made love to you before?"

She answered him because she had no choice. "Yes, Nick. But I always hated him."

"And you didn't tell me," he said.

There was no note of reproach in his tone, yet in some fashion it hurt her.

"Nick—darling, you—you've only got one arm," she said. "And he's such a great, strong bully."

Nick uttered a sudden fierce laugh. His hand was clenched. "You women!" he said, and for some reason Olga felt overwhelmingly foolish.

"Well, finish!" he commanded. "No half-measures, mind! Just the whole truth!"

And Olga stumbled on. She repeated with quivering lips Hunt-Goring's story of the taint in Violet's blood, of the tragedy that had preceded her birth.

"Nick," she said, turning piteous eyes upon his face, "I know it must be partly true, but do you think it is really quite as bad as that? I believed it at the time. But—but—perhaps—"

He shook his head. "It's true," he said briefly.

"True that she is going—mad? Oh, Nick—Nick!"

He slipped his arm around her. "And the devil told her, did he?"

She leaned her forehead on his shoulder in an agony of quivering recollection. "Because I wouldn't listen to him—because—because—"

"Pass on," said Nick. "He told her. What happened?"

But she could not tell him. "It was too dreadful—too dreadful!" she moaned.

"Where is she now?" he pursued. "You can tell me that anyhow."

"She has gone to Mrs. Briggs," Olga whispered. "She said she would know everything. She had been her nurse from the beginning. She—she is in a terrible state, Nick. I only came away to tell you. I thought you would be getting anxious, or I wouldn't have left her. I ran up the cliff path. It was quickest."

"We will go back to her in the motor," Nick said.

He got to his feet, his arm still about her, raising her also.

"Come now!" he said. "Pull yourself together, kiddie! You will need all the strength you can muster. Come inside and have a drain of brandy before we start!"

He led her within. She was shivering as one with an ague, but she made desperate efforts to control herself.

Nick was exceedingly matter-of-fact. There was never anything tragic about him. He made her drink some brandy and water, and while she did so he scribbled a brief note.

"I will send off my own man in the motor with this to Max," he said. "He had better come."

Olga looked up sharply. "It's no manner of use sending for him, Nick. She vows she will never see him again."

"We will have him all the same," said Nick. "He is the man for the job."

He went off and despatched his message, and then, returning, went out with her to the motor in which they had arrived so gaily but a few hours before.

"Now go steady, my chicken!" he said, as he got in beside her. "It wouldn't serve anyone's turn to have a spill at this juncture."

His yellow face smiled cheery encouragement into hers, and Olga felt subtly comforted.

"Oh, I am glad I've got you, Nick," she said. "You're such a brick in any trouble."

"Don't tell anyone!" said Nick. "But that's my speciality."

The midday sun was veiled in a thick haze, and the heat was intense. The dust lay white upon the hedges, and eddied about their wheels as they passed. The sea stretched away indefinitely into the sky, leaden, motionless, with no sound of waves.

"I am sure there will be a storm," said Olga.

"A good thing if there is," said Nick.

"Yes, but Violet is terrified at thunder. She always has been."

"It won't break yet," he said.

Almost noiselessly the motor sped along the dusty road. All Olga's faculties became concentrated upon her task, and she spoke no more.

They reached the village. It seemed to be deserted in the slumbrous stillness. There was not so much as a dog to be seen.

Suddenly Nick spoke. "What became of Hunt-Goring?"

The colour leaped into her pale, tense face. "He landed us at the jetty, and went away again in his yacht."

"Let us hope he will go to the bottom!" said Nick.

She shook her head, a gleam of spirit answering his. "Men like that never do."

They ran unhindered through the village and came to "The Ship." The inn-door gaped upon the street. There was not a soul in sight.

Olga brought the car to a stand. "We had better go straight in, Nick."

"Certainly," said Nick.

She peeped into the bar and found it empty. Together they entered the narrow passage. The unmistakable odour of beer and stale tobacco was all-prevalent. The air was heavy with it. They reached the foot of the steep winding stairs, and Olga paused irresolutely.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone downstairs. Will you wait while I run up?"

"No," said Nick. "I'm coming too."

They ascended therefore, and commenced to search the upper regions. But the same absolute quiet reigned above as below. Only the loud ticking of a cuckoo-clock at the head of the stairs aggravated the stillness.

Olga opened one or two doors along the passage and looked into empty rooms, and finally turned round to Nick with scared eyes.

"What can have happened? Where can she be gone?"

As she uttered the words, there fell a heavy footstep in the sanded passage below, and the sound of a man's cough came up to them.

Nick wheeled. "Hi, Briggs! Is that you?"

"Briggs it is," said a thick voice.

Nick descended the stairs with Olga behind him, and encountered the owner thereof at the bottom. He was a large-limbed man with a permanent slouch and a red and sullen countenance that very faithfully bore witness to his habits. He stood and regarded Nick with a fixed and somewhat aggressive stare.

"Where's the missis?" he said.

"That's just what I want to know," said Nick.

Briggs uttered an uneasy guffaw as if he suspected the existence of a joke that had somewhat eluded him. His eyes rolled upward to Olga, and back to Nick.

"Well, she ain't 'ere seemin'ly," he remarked.

"Don't you know where she is?" demanded Nick.

Briggs grinned foolishly. "That's tellin'!" he observed facetiously.

Nick turned from him. "Come along, Olga! They are not here evidently. It's no use trying to get any sense out of this drunken beast."

"But, Nick—" said Olga in distress.

"We will go down to the shore," he said. "Here, you Briggs! Stand back, will you?"

Briggs was blocking the narrow passage with his great bull-frame, and showed no disposition to let them pass. He seemed to think he had a grievance, and he commenced to state it in a rambling, disjointed fashion, holding them prisoners on the stairs while he did so.

Nick bore with him for exactly ten seconds, and then, clean and straight, with lightning swiftness, his one hand shot forward. It was a single hard blow, delivered full on the jaw with a force that nearly carried Nick with it, and it sent the offender staggering backwards on his heels in bellowing astonishment. The opposite wall saved him from falling headlong, but the impact was considerable, and tendered him quite incapable of recovering his He subsided slowly onto the floor with a flood of language that at least testified to the fact that his injuries were not severe.