Will smiled. "Poor darling! Your bore of a husband never did that."

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "Dear old duffer! When are we going for that honeymoon of ours? And what shall we do with Peggy? Don't say we've got to wait till she is safely married to Noel!"

Will's eyes opened. Never since Peggy's birth had Peggy's mother tolerated the possibility of leaving her. He had always believed that her whole soul centred in the child, and he had been content to believe it; such was the greatness of his love.

"You would never bear to leave Peggy behind," he said.

She laughed at him, her soft, mocking laugh of mischievous, elusive charm. "Do you suppose I shall want a child to look after when I am on my honeymoon? Of course I should leave her behind—not alone with ayah, of course. But that could be arranged. Anyhow, it is high time she learned to toddle alone on her own wee legs for a little. She is very independent already. She wouldn't really miss me, you know."

"Wouldn't she?" said Will. "But what of you? Your heart would ache for her from the moment you left her to the moment of your return."

She laughed again, lightly, merrily, her cheek against his sleeve.

"Not with my own man to keep me happy. There were no Peggies in the Garden of Eden, were there?" Then, as he still looked doubtful, "Oh, Will,—my own dearest one—how blind—how blind thou art!"

That moved him, touching him very nearly. He suddenly flushed a deep red. His arm went swiftly round her. "Daisy, Daisy—" he whispered haltingly, "I am not—not more to you than our child?"

She turned her face up to his; her eyes were full of tears though she was smiling still. "More to me than all the world, dear," she whispered back; "dearer to me than my hope of heaven."

She had never spoken such words to him before; he had never dreamed to hear them on her lips. It was not Daisy's way to express herself thus. In the far-off days of their courtship she had ever, daintily yet firmly, kept him at a distance. Since those days she had suffered shipwreck—a shipwreck from which his love alone had delivered her; but though the bond between them had drawn them very close, he had never pictured himself as ruling supreme in his wife's heart.

He was strongly moved by the revelation; but it was utterly impossible to put his feeling into words. He could only stoop and kiss her with a murmured, "God bless you, Daisy!"

They parted then, she to follow Peggy and superintend the evening tub, he to return to his desk and his work.

But his work did not flourish that evening; and presently, waxing impatient, he rose and went to seek her, drawn as a needle to a magnet.

He found her dressed for the regimental ball, and such was the witchery of her in her gown of shimmering black that he stood a moment in the doorway of her room as though hesitating to enter.

She turned from her table smiling her gay, sweet smile. Her silvery hair shone soft and wonderful in the lamplight.

"Ah, my dear Will," she said, "are you coming to for once? I wish you would. Do leave that stuffy old work—just to please me!" She went to meet him, with hands coaxingly outstretched. "It's getting late," she said, "I'll help you to dress."

He took the hands, gazing at her as if he could not turn his eyes away. "There's not much point in my trying to work to-night," he said, his voice very deep and a trifle husky. "I see and think of nothing but you. Great heavens, Daisy, how lovely you are!"

She laughed at him with tender raillery. "Dearly beloved gander, there is no one in the world thinks so but you."

"You've turned my head to-night," he said, still gazing at her. "By Heaven, I believe I'm falling in love with you all over again."

"Ah, well, it's to some purpose this time," she laughed, "for I'm very badly smitten too."

He did not laugh; he could not. "Daisy," he said, "we will have that honeymoon."

She pressed towards him with eagerness none the less because she pretended it to be half-feigned. "Will, you darling! When? When?"

His arms clasped her. His chest was heaving. "Very soon," he said, speaking softly down into her upraised face. "I've been thinking, dear—thinking very hard, ever since you asked me. I can get long leave in about three months—if I work for it. We'll go Home for the summer, you and I and the kiddie. If you are sure you can bear it, we will take her to Muriel Ratcliffe—and leave her in her charge."

He paused.

"Go on!" breathed Daisy. "And then?"

"Then we will go away together—you and I—you and I—right away into the country, and be—alone."

Daisy drew a deep breath. Her eyes were shining. She spoke no word. Only, after a moment, her hands stole upwards and clasped his neck.

"Will it do?" said Will.

She nodded mutely.

He held her closely. "Daisy, forgive me for asking—it won't hurt you to go back to England?"

Her eyes met his with absolute candour. "No, dear," she said.

"I was thinking," he said, stumbling a little, "sometimes old scenes, you know—they bring back—old heartaches."

"My heart will never ache—in that way," she answered gently, "while I have you." She paused a moment; then: "I'd like you to understand, Will," she said. "It isn't that I have forgotten. I have simply passed on. One does, you know. And I think that is—sometimes—how the last come to be first. It doesn't hurt me any longer to remember my old love. And it mustn't hurt you either. For it isn't a thing that could ever again come between us. Nothing ever could, Will. We are too closely united for that. And it is your love, your faith, your patience, that have made it so."

She ended with her head back, her lips raised to his, and in the kiss that passed between them there was something sacred, something in the nature of a bond.

Yet in a moment she was smiling again, the while she slipped from his close embrace. "And now you are going to dress for the ball. Come, you won't refuse me just for to-night—just for to-night!"

She pleaded with him like a girl and she proved irresistible. Half dazzled by her, he surrendered to her wiles.

"I will come if you like, Daisy; but I'm afraid I shall only be in the way. My dancing has grown very rusty from long disuse."

"What nonsense!" she protested. "Why, I only married you for the sake of your dancing. If you don't come, I shall spend the whole evening dancing with Nick."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of Nick!" said Will. "He is as safe as the Bank of England."

"Is he?" said Daisy. "You wait till you catch us alone some day. I tell you frankly, Will, I've kissed Nick more than once!"

"My dear," he said, "your frankness is your salvation. You have my full permission to do so as often as you meet."

She made a face at him, and finally freed herself. "Many thanks! But you wouldn't like me to create a scandal by dancing with him all the evening, I am sure. So," giving him a small, emphatic push, "go at once and dress your lazy self, and do your duty as a husband for once!"

"Shall I be adequately rewarded for it?" questioned Will, looking back as he turned to go.

She blew him an airy kiss. "Yes, you shall have half my waltzes."

He still lingered. "And the other half?"

"The other half," said Daisy, "will be divided equally between Nick and my prospective son-in-law."

And at that Will laughed like a merry boy and moved away. "I know I can cut out Noel," he said as he went. "As for Nick, he is welcome to as many as he can get."



CHAPTER XIII

A woman's prejudice

The evening was marked for ever in Olga's calendar as the merriest of her life. She was positively giddy with happiness, and she danced as she had never danced before. No one deemed her colourless or insignificant that night. She was radiant, and all who saw her felt the glow.

The only flaw in her joy was a slight dread of Noel; but this he very quickly dispelled, singling her out at once to plead for dances.

"You've saved a few for me, I know," he said, in his wheedling Irish way, and she saw at once that, whatever his inner feelings, he had no intention of wearing his heart on his sleeve.

She showed him her programme. "Yes, I've kept quite a lot for you to choose from," she said.

He flashed her a glance from his dark eyes that made her drop her own. "All right then," he said coolly. "I'll take 'em all."

She raised no protest though she had not quite expected that of him. She felt she owed it to him—as if in short she ought to give him anything he asked for to make up for what she had been compelled to withhold.

Max, sauntering up a little later, took her programme and looked at it with brows slightly raised. He gave it back to her, however, without comment.

Noel was the best dancer in the room, and Olga fully appreciated the fact. She loved Nick's dancing also, but it always brought to notice his crippled state, a fact which he never seemed to mind, but which she had never wholly ceased to mourn.

It was a great surprise to her to see Will Musgrave on the scene. When he came to her side her programme was full.

"Oh, knock off one of Nick's!" he said. "I owe him one."

But she would not do this till Nick's permission had been obtained and Nick had airily secured Daisy as a substitute.

Her dances with Max were spent chiefly in a very dark corner of the verandah, as he maintained that she was in a highly feverish condition and rest and quiet were essential. There was certainly some truth in the assertion though she indignantly denied it, and the intervals passed thus undoubtedly calmed her and kept her from reaching too high a pitch of excitement.

Max was exceedingly composed and steady. He danced with Daisy Musgrave, and provoked her to exasperation by his sang-froid.

"He is quite detestable," she told her husband later. "What on earth Olga can see to like in him is a puzzle I can never hope to solve. Noel is worth a hundred of him."

At which criticism Will laughed aloud. "There is no accounting for woman's fancies, my dear Daisy. And I must say I think young Noel would prove something of a handful."

"Anyhow he is human," retorted Daisy. "But this young man of Olga's is as self-contained and unapproachable as a camel. I'd rather deal with a sinner than a saint any day."

"Is Dr. Wyndham a saint?" questioned Will.

She laughed with just a touch of hardness. "A very scientific one, I should say. He has the most merciless eyes I ever saw."

She expressed this opinion a little later to Nick who took her in to supper, and for once found him in disagreement with her.

"Dearest Daisy," he said, "you can't expect a genius to look and behave like an ordinary mortal. That young man is already one of the most brilliant members of his profession. He has practically the world at his feet, and he'd be a fool if he didn't know it. I quite admit he may be merciless, but he is magnetic too. He can work with his mind as well as his hands, and he is never at a loss. Now that is the sort of man I admire. I think Olga has shown excellent taste."

"I don't!" declared Daisy emphatically. "I simply can't understand it, Nick. He may be an excellent match for her from a worldly point of view, but from a romantic standpoint—" She broke off with an expressive gesture—"I suppose it is a love-match?"

Nick laughed, blinking very rapidly as her eyes sought his. "Look at the kiddie's face if you want to know! She is as happy as a lark. Also, I seem to remember someone once saying to me that there wasn't a man in the universe that some woman couldn't be fool enough to love."

Daisy smiled in spite of herself. "I know I did. But some attachments are quite unaccountable all the same. I suppose if you are satisfied, I ought to be; but, you know, there is something about that young man that puts me in mind of a destroying angel. There's a tremendous power for shattering things hidden away in him somewhere. He may be a genius. I daresay he is. But one feels he wouldn't stick at anything that came in his way. If he failed he would simply trample his failure underfoot without scruple and go on. He is ruthless, Nick, or he couldn't have cut out poor Noel so overwhelmingly. I always thought till yesterday that Noel's chances were very good."

"I never favoured Noel's addresses," said Nick lightly. "He wants more ballast, to my mind. Whatever Max may be, at least he's solid. He wouldn't capsize in a gale."

Daisy laughed. "I see you are not to be influenced by a woman's prejudice. I daresay you are right, but there is also something in what I say or my instinct is very seriously at fault."

"On that point," said Nick politely, "chivalry does not permit me to express an opinion. Also, you are far too lovely to thwart, if I may use an old friend's privilege to tell you so."

She laughed carelessly enough though her cheeks flushed a little. "You are a gross flatterer, Nick."

"On the contrary," he said, "I worship at the shrine of Truth. You are more beautiful to-night than I have ever before seen you."

She laughed again with a hint of something that was not careless. "I'm glad you think so." She paused a moment; then: "Nick," she said softly, "dear old friend, Will and I are going for our second honeymoon this year!"

Carefully subdued though it was Nick heard the note of exultation in her voice. His own magic smile flashed across his face. Under the table his hand gripped hers.

"Thanks for telling me, dear!" he said, in a rapid whisper. "Long life and happiness to you both!"

For the rest of his time with her, he was gay and inconsequent. Very thorough was the understanding between them. They had been pals for many years.

When he left her, it was to go in search of Olga whose name was the only one left on his programme.

He found her with Noel on the verandah whither they had just betaken themselves for some air after the heat of the supper-room. He broke in upon them without ceremony.

"Look here, Olga mia! I've got to go. I'm afraid I shall have to cut our dance. You can give it to Max with my love. Daisy will take care of you here, and he can bring you home."

"Got to go, Nick! Why?" She turned to him in surprise. "You're not going to the Palace at this time of night surely! Why, the Rajah is still here, isn't he?"

"Great Lucifer, no!" said Nick. "But I've got some business to see to that won't keep. You'll be all right with Max to take care of you. Good-night!" He kissed her lightly. "See you in the morning! Don't overtire yourself, and don't get up early! Good-night, Noel!"

He would have departed with the words, but Noel detained him. "I say, Nick! I've been wanting a word with you all day, but couldn't get it in. If I lived where you do, I should keep a pretty sharp look-out. I caught an old brute of a moonstone-seller (at least that's what he called himself) prowling about your place only last night, and kicked him off the premises."

Nick stood still. His eyes flickered very rapidly as he faced Noel in the dimness. "Awfully obliged to you, my son," he said, and in his cracked voice there sounded a desire to laugh. "But that poor old seller of moonstones happens to be a very particular friend of mine. You needn't kick him again."

"What?" said Noel. "That mangy old cur a friend of yours?"

"He isn't mangy," said Nick. "And he's been very useful to me in one way and another; will be again, I daresay."

"My dear chap," Noel protested, "you don't mean to say you trust those people? You shouldn't really. It's madness. They are treachery incarnate, one and all."

Nick laughed flippantly. "Even treachery is a useful quality sometimes," he declared, as he turned to go. "Don't you worry yourself, my boy. I can walk on cat's ice as well as anyone I know."

He was gone, humming his favourite waltz as he departed; and Noel turned back to his partner with a grunt of discontent.

"He'll play that game once too often if he isn't careful," he said.

"Is there really any danger?" Olga asked.

"I should say so," he answered, "but it seems I am of no account."

"Oh, he didn't mean that," she said quickly.

He looked at her. "He is not the only person who thinks so, Olga."

She slipped a friendly hand on to his arm. "Noel," she said, "you don't think I think so, do you?"

He laid his hand on hers and pressed it silently. They stood together in the semi-darkness, isolated for the moment, very intimately alone.

"Noel," Olga whispered at length, a tremor of distress in the words, "you mustn't think that; please—please, you must never think that!"

He moved a little, stooped to her. "Olga," he said, speaking quickly, "I'm not blaming you. You couldn't help it. It's just my damned luck. But—if I'd met you—first—I'd have won you!"

The words came hot and passionate. His hand gripped hers with unconscious force. She made no attempt to free herself. Neither did she contradict him, for she knew that he spoke the truth.

Only, after a moment, she said, looking up at him, "I'm so dreadfully sorry."

"You couldn't help it," he reiterated almost savagely. "Anyhow you're happy; so I ought to be satisfied. I should be too, if I didn't have a sort of feeling that you'd have been happier with me. P'raps I'm a cad to tell you, but it's hit me rather hard."

He broke off, breathing heavily. She drew nearer to him, stroking his shoulder softly with her free hand. "Dear Noel, I love you for telling me," she said. "I feel dreadfully unworthy of your love. But I'm very, very grateful for it. You know that, don't you? And I—I'd marry you if my heart would let me, but,—dear, it won't."

He forced a laugh. "I know you would. That's just the damnable part of it. Life is an infernal swindle, isn't it? It's brimful of this sort of thing." He stood up with a jerk, and pulled himself together. "Forgive me, Olga! I didn't mean to let off steam in this way. I'm a selfish hound. Forget it! Only promise me that if you ever want a friend to turn to, you'll turn to me."

"Indeed I will!" she said very earnestly.

He held her hands very tightly for a moment and let them go; but they clung to his. She looked up at him appealingly.

"Noel," she said, with slight hesitation, "please—for my sake—be friendly with Max!"

He drew back instantly with a boyish gesture of distaste. "Oh, all right," he said.

She saw that he would not endure pressure on this point, and refrained from pursuing it; but his reception of her request was a disappointment to her. Somehow she had come to expect greater things from Noel.

The rest of the evening slipped away magically. She danced a great many dances without any sense of fatigue; but when it was all over at last a great weariness descended upon her. She drove back with Max, so utterly spent that she could hardly speak.

Yet, as they entered Nick's bungalow, she roused herself and turned to him with her own quick smile. "It's been the happiest evening of my life," she said.

"Really!" said Max.

She slipped the cloak from her shoulders and went close to him. The love in her eyes gave them a glory that was surely not of earth. She took him by the shoulders, those clear, shining eyes raised to his.

"I'm afraid you've had a dull time," she said. "I hope you haven't hated it."

"Not at all," said Max.

Yet a hint of cynicism still lingered about him as he said it. He stood passive within her hold.

She pressed a little nearer to him. "Max, you didn't mind my giving all those dances to Noel? You—understood?"

He began to smile. "My dear girl, yes!"

"You are sure?" she insisted.

He took her upraised face between his hands. "I have always understood you," he said.

"I can't help being sorry for him, can I?" she said wistfully.

He bent and kissed her. "It's a wasted sentiment, my child; but if it pleases you to be sorry, I have no objection."

"He is much nicer than you think," she pleaded.

He laughed at that. "I've known him from his cradle. He's a typical Wyndham, you know. They are all charming in one sense, and all rotten in another."

"Oh, Max!" she protested.

"I'm an exception," he said; "neither charming nor rotten. Now, my dear, since your estimable little chaperon has deserted you it's up to me to send you to bed. Do you want a drink before you go?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "No, I don't want anything. I feel as if I had had too much already. I don't want to go to bed, Max. I don't want to end this perfect day."

"There is always to-morrow," he said.

"No; but to-morrow won't be the same. And the time goes so fast. Very soon you will be going too."

"It will soon be Midsummer Day," smiled Max.

She gave a sudden, sharp shiver. "Lots of things may happen before then."

He held her closely to him for a moment, and in the thrilling pressure of his arms she felt his love for her vibrate; but he made no verbal answer to her words.

Slowly at length she released herself. "Well, I suppose I must say good-night. I hope you will be comfortable. You are sure you have all you want?"

"Quite sure," he said.

"Then good-night!" She went back for a moment into his arms. "I wonder Nick isn't here. Do you think he can have gone to bed?"

"Haven't an idea," said Max. "Anyhow I don't want him. And it's high time you went. Good-night, dear!"

Again closely he held her; again his lips pressed hers. Then, his arm about her, he led her to the door.

They parted outside, she glancing backward as she went, he standing motionless to watch her go. At the last she kissed her hand to him and was gone.

He turned back into the room with an odd, unsteady smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

The hand with which he helped himself to a drink shook slightly, and he looked at it with contemptuous attention. His favourite briar was lying in an ash-tray, where he had left it earlier in the day. He took it up, filled and lighted it. Then he sauntered out on to the verandah, drink in hand.

The night was dark and chill. He could barely discern the cypresses against the sky. He sat down in a hammock-chair in deep shadow and proceeded to smoke his pipe.

From far away, in the direction of the jungle, there came the haunting cry of a jackal, and a little nearer he heard the weird call of an owl. But close at hand there was no sound. He lay in absolute stillness, gazing along the verandah with eyes that looked into the future.

Minutes passed. His pipe went out, and his drink remained by his side forgotten. He wandered in the depths of reverie....

Suddenly from the compound immediately below him there came a faint rustle as of some living creature moving stealthily, and in a second Max was back in the present. He sat up noiselessly and peered downwards.

The faint rustle continued. His thoughts flashed to the tiger he had slain the day before at Khantali. Could this be another prowling in search of food? He scarcely thought so, yet the possibility gave him a sensation of bristling down the spine. He remained motionless in his chair, however, alert, listening.

Softly the intruder drew near. He heard the tamarisk bushes part and close again. But he heard no sound of feet. It was a cat-like advance, slow and wary.

He wondered if the creature could see him there in the dark, wondered if he were a fool to remain but decided to do so and take his chances. Max Wyndham's belief in his own particular lucky star was profound.

Nearer and nearer drew the unseen one, came close to him, seemed to pause,—and passed. Max was holding his breath. His hands were clenched. He was strung for vigorous resistance.

But as he realized that the danger—if danger there had been—was over, his muscles relaxed. A moment later with absolute noiselessness he rose and leaned over the verandah-rail, intently watching.

Seconds passed thus and nothing happened. The rustling sound grew fainter, faded imperceptibly at length into the stillness of the night. Could it have been a jackal, Max asked himself?

He stood up and looked once more along the verandah. Nick's room was just round the corner of the bungalow. The nocturnal visitor had gone in that direction. With noiseless tread he followed.

He reached the corner. The soft glow of a night-lamp lay across the verandah. The window was open. He paused a second, then strode softly up and looked in.

A bamboo-screen was pulled across the room, hiding the bed. The lamp was burning behind it. As Max stood at the window, a turbaned figure came silently round the screen. It was the figure of an old man, grey-bearded, slightly bent, clad in a long native garment. For a moment he stood, then stepped to the window and closed it swiftly in Max's face. So sudden and so noiseless was the action that Max was taken wholly by surprise. He did not so much as know whether his presence had been observed.

Then the blind came down with the same noiseless rapidity, and he was left in darkness.

Mindful of the mysterious visitor in the compound, he turned about and felt his way back to the corner of the bungalow, deciding that the lighted drawing-room was preferable to the dark verandah.

Reaching the corner and within sight of the lamplight, he stopped again and listened. But the compound was still and to all appearance deserted. He waited for a full minute, but heard no sound beyond a faint stirring of the night-wind in the cypresses. Slowly at length he turned and retraced his steps, contemptuously wondering if the mysterious East had tampered with his nerves.

It was evident that his host had retired for the night with the assistance of his bearer, and he decided to follow his example. He closed and bolted the windows and went to his own room.



CHAPTER XIV

SMOKE FROM THE FIRE

"It always used to be regarded as anything but a model State," smiled Major Hunt-Goring, as he lay in a long chair and watched Daisy's busy fingers at work on a frock for Peggy. "I suppose our friend Nicholas Ratcliffe has changed all that, however. A queer little genius—Nick."

"He is my husband's and my greatest friend," said Daisy.

"Really!" Hunt-Goring laughed silkily. "Do you know, Mrs. Musgrave, that's the fifth time you have mentioned your husband in as many minutes? If I remember aright, he used not to be so often on your lips."

Daisy glanced up momentarily. "And now," she said, "he is never out of my thoughts."

"Really!" Hunt-Goring said again. He looked at her very attentively for a few seconds before he relaxed again with eyes half-closed. "That is tres convenant for you both," he observed. "I enjoy the unusual spectacle of a wife who is happy as well as virtuous."

Daisy stitched on in silence. Privately she wondered how she had ever come to be on intimate terms with the man, and condemned afresh the follies of her youth.

"Have you been Home since I had the pleasure of your society at Mahalaleshwar I will not say how many years ago?" asked Hunt-Goring, after a pause.

"I went Home the following year," said Daisy. "We thought—we hoped—it would make our baby boy more robust to have a summer in England."

"Oh, have you a boy?" said Hunt-Goring, without much interest.

"He died," said Daisy briefly.

Hunt-Goring looked bored, and the conversation languished.

Into the silence came Peggy, fairy-footed, gay of mien. She flung impulsive arms around her mother's neck and pressed a soft cheek coaxingly to hers.

"Mummy, Noel is comin' to teach me to ride this morning. I may go, mayn't I?"

"My darling!" said Daisy, in consternation. "He never said anything to me about it."

Peggy laughed, nodding her fair head with saucy assurance. "He promised, Mummy."

"But, dearie," protested Daisy, "you can't ride Noel's horse. You'd be frightened, and so would Mummy."

Peggy laughed again, the triumphant laugh of one who possesses private information. "Noel wouldn't let me be frightened," she said, with confidence.

"Who is Noel?" asked Hunt-Goring.

Peggy looked at him. She was not quite sure that she liked this friend of her mother's, and her look said as much. "Noel is an officer," she said proudly. "He's the pwettiest officer in the Regiment, and I love him."

"Ha!" Hunt-Goring laughed. "You inherit your mother's tastes, my child." He looked across at Daisy. "She always preferred the pretty ones."

"I know better now," said Daisy, without returning his look.

He laughed again and stretched himself. "What became of that handsome cousin of yours who paid you a visit in the old M'war days?"

"Do you mean Blake Grange?" Daisy's voice suddenly sounded so remote and cold that Peggy turned and regarded her in round-eyed astonishment.

"Yes, that was the fellow. He got trapped at Wara along with General Roscoe and Nick Ratcliffe. What happened to him? Was he killed?"

"No, not then." Slowly Daisy lifted her eyes; slowly she spoke. "He gave his life in England the following year to save some shipwrecked sailors."

"Did he, though? Quite a hero!" Hunt-Goring's eyes met hers and insolently held them. "Were you present at the sacrifice?"

"Yes," she answered him briefly, but there was tragedy in her eyes.

"Ah!" said Hunt-Goring softly. "That made a difference to you."

She did not answer; she leaned her cheek against Peggy's fair head in silence.

"My dear lady," said Hunt-Goring, "you always took things too seriously."

She gave a brief sigh, and took up her work again. "Life is rather a serious matter, I find," she said, with a smile that was scarcely gay.

"Nonsense!" said Hunt-Goring.

"Don't you find it so?" Daisy did not look up again; she stitched on rapidly with the child leaning against her knee.

"I?" he said. "Oh, sometimes it seems so, when things don't fit. But I don't care, you know. I have a volatile mind, I am glad to say."

"Are you never afraid of growing old?" asked Daisy.

He laughed his soft, self-satisfied laugh. "Oh, really, you know, I don't think they will let me do that at present."

"You never think of getting married?" asked Daisy.

Hunt-Goring's smile changed a little, grew subtly harder. "Most people think of it at one time or another." he observed. "But personally I do not regard myself as a marrying man."

"And you are never lonely?" she said.

"I am seldom alone, my dear Mrs. Musgrave," he said.

She turned the conversation. "Where have you been living since your retirement?"

"I took a place in England in the hunting-country—quite a decent place."

"Ah? Where?"

"About two miles from a little town called Weir." Hunt-Goring spoke deliberately, still watching his hostess's slim fingers at work.

"Why!" Swiftly Daisy looked up. "That is where the Ratcliffes live—Jim Ratcliffe and Olga. Olga is out here now with Nick. Did you know?"

Hunt-Goring nodded to each sentence. "I know it all. I know Jim Ratcliffe, and a burly old monster he is. I know Nick of Redlands—also the sedate Mrs. Nick. And, last but not least, I know—Olga."

He spoke mockingly; his look was derisive.

"I had no idea you had been living there," said Daisy.

"I was the hornet in the hive," said Hunt-Goring with his lazy laugh. "It's rather a hole of a place, though I liked The Warren well enough. I'm not going back there. You can tell Olga so with my love."

"She and Nick are dining here to-night," observed Daisy, "so you will be able to tell her yourself."

"What! To meet me!" It was Hunt-Goring's turn to look surprised. He did so with an accompanying sneer. "How did you describe me, I wonder? You couldn't have mentioned my name."

Daisy regarded him steadily for a moment. "Is there any reason why she should not meet you?" she asked.

"None whatever," said Hunt-Goring, with a shrug. "Needless to say, I shall be quite charmed to meet her."

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Noel. He came out through the French window of the drawing-room with his habitual air of cheery assurance, and was instantly pounced upon by Peggy who hailed him with delight.

He caught her up in his arms. "Well, little sweetheart, are we going for our ride? What does Mummy say?" He laughed down at Daisy, the child mounted high on his shoulder.

Daisy laughed back because she could not help it. "Oh, Noel, you are incorrigible! I don't think I dare trust her to you. Why do you suggest these headlong things?"

"But, my dear Mrs. Musgrave," he protested, "does any harm ever come to her when she is with me? You know I would guard her with my life!"

"Yes, I know," smiled Daisy. "But I am not sure that that would be a very great safe-guard. You are so reckless yourself. By the way, let me introduce Major Hunt-Goring—an old friend. Major Hunt-Goring—Mr. Wyndham!"

Noel nodded careless acknowledgment. Hunt-Goring merely lifted his brows momentarily. He did not greatly care for the boy's familiarity with his hostess. It was a privilege which he did not wish to share.

"Well, shall we start?" said Noel. "I've brought one of my polo mounts for Peggy," he added to Daisy. "You know the Chimpanzee. He's as quiet as a lamb. Come and give us a send-off! Really you needn't be anxious."

He patted her arm coaxingly, reassuringly, and Hunt-Goring took out his cigarette-case. He was plainly bored to extinction.

Daisy left him with a smiling apology. She did not suggest that he should accompany them, and he did not offer to do so.

"I don't like that man," declared Peggy as Noel bore her away. "He looks so ugly when he smiles."

"Only the Daisies and Peggies of this world manage to look pretty always," observed Noel gallantly.

For which dainty compliment Daisy frowned upon him. "My vanity days are over," she said, "but do remember that hers are yet to come!"

They went round to the front of the bungalow where Noel had left the mounts; and after a good deal of discussion and many injunctions Peggy was, to her huge delight, perched astride the Chimpanzee, a creature of almost human intelligence who plainly took a serious view of his responsibilities, to Daisy's immense relief.

She watched them ride away together at length at a walking pace, Noel on his tall Waler leading the polo-pony, from whose back Peggy waved her an ardent farewell; and finally went back to her guest feeling reassured. Noel evidently had no intention of taking any risks with Peggy in his charge.

"It's very good of him," she remarked, as she sat down again on the verandah.

Hunt-Goring opened his eyes a quarter of an inch. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, nothing," said Daisy, feeling slightly annoyed. "He's a nice boy, that's all; and I am grateful to him for being so kind to my little Peggy."

"It probably answers his purpose," said Hunt-Goring, smothering a yawn.

Daisy took up her work again in silence.

Hunt-Goring finished his cigarette in dreamy ease before he spoke again.

She thought he was half-asleep when unexpectedly he accosted her, referring to the subject in which he had seemed to take but slight interest.

"Did you say that puppy's name was Wyndham?"

"He isn't a puppy," said Daisy, quick to defend her friend.

He smiled his tolerant amusement. "My dear little woman, that wasn't the point of my enquiry."

Daisy stiffened. She suddenly began to sew very fast indeed, without speaking. Her pretty lips were compressed, but Hunt-Goring seemed sublimely unconscious of the fact. He smiled to himself as at some inward thought.

"You did say his name was Wyndham, I think?" he said, after a moment.

"I did," said Daisy.

"There was a fellow of the same name who lived at Weir," observed Hunt-Goring. "He was the doctor's assistant; had to leave in something of a hurry, I believe. There was the beginning of a scandal, but it was hushed up—strangled at birth, so to speak."

"What?" said Daisy. She looked across at him swiftly, her dignity and work alike forgotten.

Hunt-Goring still smiled placidly. "I daresay it might be described as a regrettable incident. It concerned the sudden death of a young girl at which event the said Dr. Wyndham presided. I really shouldn't have mentioned it if it hadn't been for the familiarity of the name."

"They are brothers," said Daisy.

"Really! That is strange." Again Hunt-Goring barely concealed a yawn. "Olga Ratcliffe used to be somewhat smitten with the young man in what I might call her calf days. Doubtless she has got over that by now, especially as the girl who died was a friend of hers."

"But she can't know of that!" said Daisy quickly. "She has been very ill, you know—an illness brought on by the shock of it all."

"Indeed!" said Hunt-Goring, and became significantly silent.

Daisy continued to look at him. "She has not got over it," she said slowly at length, speaking as though uttering her thoughts aloud. "He is out here now, arrived only last week. And—they are engaged to be married."

"Chacun a son gout!" observed Hunt-Goring.

She made a sharp movement of impatience. "Oh, don't be so cold-blooded! Tell me—do tell me—the whole story!"

"My dear Daisy," said Hunt-Goring daringly, "there is practically nothing more to tell."

"But there must be," Daisy argued, ignoring side-issues. "How did the gossip arise? There is never smoke without some fire."

"True," said Hunt-Goring. "But for the truth of the gossip I will not vouch. It ran in this wise. The girl was beautiful—and gay. The man—well, you have had some experience of the species; you know what they are. Trouble arose; there was madness in the girl's family. She became demented; and a certain magic draught did the rest. It was risky of course; but it was a choice of evils. He chose the surest means of protecting his reputation—which, I believe, is considered valuable in his profession."

"Oh, it isn't possible!" protested Daisy. "It simply can't be. How did you hear all this?"

Hunt-Goring laughed. "How does one ever hear anything? I told you I didn't vouch for the truth of it."

"I wonder what I ought to do," said Daisy.

"Do?" He looked at her. "What do you contemplate doing? Is it up to you to do anything?"

Daisy scarcely saw or heard him. "I am thinking of little Olga. She is engaged to him. She—can't know of this evil tale."

"She probably does," said Hunt-Goring. "They were very intimate—she and Violet Campion."

"It isn't possible," Daisy said again. "Why, I believe she was actually with the poor girl when she died. Nick told me a little. He said it had been very sudden and a severe shock to her."

"I should say it was," said Hunt-Goring.

She looked at him. "You were there at the time?"

"I was at The Warren—yes." He spoke with an easy air of unconcern.

Daisy leaned towards him. "And Nick—do you think Nick knew?"

Hunt-Goring looked straight back at her. "I think," he said deliberately, "that I should scarcely trouble to tackle Nick on the subject. He knows exactly what it suits him to know."

"What do you mean?" Daisy spoke sharply, nervously.

"Merely that he and the young man are—and always have been—hand and glove," explained Hunt-Goring smoothly. "Nick is a very charming person no doubt, but—"

"Be careful!" warned Daisy.

He made her a smiling bow. "But," he repeated with emphasis, "he is not sentimentally particular in a matter of ethics. He looks to the end rather than the means. Also you must remember he is a man and not a woman. A man's outlook is different."

"Do you mean that Nick would overlook a thing of this kind?" asked Daisy.

Hunt-Goring nodded thoughtfully. "I think he would condone many things that you would regard as inexcusable, even monstrous. Otherwise, he would scarcely have been selected for his present job."

Daisy was silent.

"And you must remember," Hunt-Goring proceeded, "that this young Wyndham is a rising man—a desirable parti for any girl. He will probably never make another blunder of that description. It is too risky, especially for a man who means to climb to the top of the tree."

"You really think it possible then that Nick knows?" Daisy still looked doubtful.

"I think it more than possible." Hunt-Goring spoke with confidence. "I am sorry if it shocks you, but, you know, he is really too shrewd a person not to know current gossip and its origin."

This was a straight shot, and it told. Daisy acknowledged it without argument.

"But Olga!" she said. "Olga can't know."

"Perhaps not," admitted Hunt-Goring. "And—in that case—it would be advisable to leave her in ignorance; would it not?"

He took out another cigarette with the words, flinging her a sidelong glance as he did it.

But Daisy was silent, looking straight before her.

"Surely," said Hunt-Goring, through a cloud of aromatic smoke, "whether there is anything in the tale or not, the fewer that know of it—the better."

"Oh, I don't know." Daisy spoke as if compelled. "No woman ought to be married blindfold. It is too great a risk."

Hunt-Goring leaned back again in his chair. "If I were in your place, I should maintain a discreet silence," he said.

"I don't think you would," said Daisy.

He inhaled a long breath of smoke. "If I didn't, I should approach the girl herself—find out what she knows—and, with great discretion, put her on her guard. I don't think you would gain much by opening up the matter in any other quarter."

"You mean it would be no good to discuss it with Nick?" said Daisy.

Hunt-Goring looked at the end of his cigarette. "Perhaps I do mean that," he said. "He would probably prevent it coming to Olga's knowledge if he had set his heart on the match."

"He couldn't prevent my telling her," said Daisy quickly.

"No?" Hunt-Goring gave utterance to his silky laugh. "Well," he said, "my experience of Nick Ratcliffe is not a very extensive one; but I should certainly say that he knows how to get his own way in most things. Perhaps you have never come into collision with him?"

Daisy coloured suddenly, and was silent.

Hunt-Goring laughed again. "You see my point, I perceive," he remarked. "Well, I leave the matter in your hands, but—if you really wish to warn the girl, I should not warn Nick Ratcliffe first."

He spoke impressively, notwithstanding his laugh. And Daisy accepted his advice in silence.

Much as she loved Nick, she knew but too well how a struggle with him would end, and she shrank from risking a conflict. Besides, there was Olga to be thought of. She resumed her sewing with a puckered brow. Certainly Olga must be warned.

There might be no truth in the story, but then rumours of that description never started themselves. And Max Wyndham—well she had been prejudiced against him from the beginning in spite of the fact that Nick was all in his favour. He was ruthless and unscrupulous; she was sure of it. How he had ever managed to win Olga was a perpetual puzzle to her. Perhaps he really was magnetic, as Nick had said. But she believed it to be an evil magnetism. As a lover, he was the coolest she had ever seen.

"Altogether objectionable," had been her verdict from the outset.

And now came this monstrous tale to confirm her previous opinion. Impulsively Daisy decided that Olga must not be left in ignorance. Marriage was too great a speculation for any risk of that kind to be justifiable. She felt she owed it to the girl to warn her—to save her from a possible life-long misery. These things had such a ghastly knack of turning up afterwards. And Olga was so young, so trusting—

"Are you going to take my advice?" asked Hunt-Goring.

She looked up with a start. "What advice?"

"As to maintaining a discreet silence," he said.

His eyes were half-closed; she could not detect the narrowness of his scrutiny.

"No," she answered. "I shall certainly speak to Olga. It wouldn't be right—it wouldn't be fair—not to do so." Her look was suddenly appealing. "There is a free-masonry among women as well as men," she said. "We must keep faith with one another at least."

Hunt-Goring closed his eyes completely, and smiled a placid smile. "Dear Mrs. Musgrave," he said, "you are a true woman."

And she did not hear the note of exultation below the lazy appreciation of his words.



CHAPTER XV

THE SPREADING OF THE FLAME

Certainly Major Hunt-Goring was the last person Olga expected to meet at the Musgraves' dinner-party that night, and so astounded was she for the moment at the sight of him that she came to a sudden halt on the threshold of the drawing-room.

"Hullo!" murmured Max's voice behind her. "Here's a dear old friend!"

Max's hand gently pushed her forward, and in an instant she had mastered her astonishment. She met the dear old friend with heightened colour indeed, but with no other sign of agitation. He smiled upon her, upon Max, upon Nick, with equal geniality.

"Quite a gathering of old friends!" he remarked.

"Quite," said Nick. "Have you only just come out?"

"No, I've been out some weeks. I came after tiger," said Hunt-Goring, with his eyes on Olga, who had passed on to her host.

"You won't find any in this direction," said Nick. "Wyndham bagged the last survivor on Christmas Day, and a mangy old brute it was."

"I daresay I shall come across other game," said Hunt-Goring, bringing his eyes slowly back to Nick.

Nick laughed. "It's not particularly plentiful here. You'll find it a waste of time hunting in these parts."

"Oh, I have plenty of time at my disposal," smiled Hunt-Goring.

Nick's eyes flickered over him. He also was smiling. "Perseverance deserves to be rewarded," he said.

"And usually is," said Hunt-Goring. He held out his hand to Max. "Ah, Dr. Wyndham, I'm delighted to meet you again. You will be gratified to hear that, thanks to your skilful treatment, my thumb has mended quite satisfactorily."

Max looked at the hand critically; he did not offer to take it. "I am—greatly gratified," he said.

Hunt-Goring withdrew it, still smiling. "May I congratulate you on your engagement," he said.

Max's mouth went down ironically. "Certainly if you feel so disposed," he said.

Hunt-Goring laughed easily. "You young fellows have all the luck," he said. "When do you expect to be married?"

"On Midsummer Day," said Max.

"Really!" Hunt-Goring's laugh was silken in its softness. "Your plans are all cut and dried then. Yet, you know, 'there's many a slip,' etc."

"Not under my management," said Max.

He looked hard and straight into the other man's eyes, and turned aside.

Nick had already joined his hostess, and was making gay conversation about nothing in particular.

Noel came in late, acknowledged everyone with a deep salaam, and attached himself instantly to Olga.

With relief she found that he was to take her in to dinner. He was in a mood of charming inconsequence, and under his easy guidance she gradually recovered from the shock of her enemy's appearance on the scene.

"I hear on the best authority that General Bassett is expected in a fortnight," he told her. "We are going to treat him royally. You ladies will have to work hard."

"Max will be on his way Home by then," said Olga, with a sigh.

He laughed. "Well, I shall be left, and I shan't let you grizzle. We must organize a fete week. You and I will be the head of the committee. I'll come round to-morrow, and we'll draw up a plan to submit to old Badgers; merely a matter of form, you know. He'll consent to anything. We will have a fancy-dress ball for one thing, and a picnic or two, and some races and gymkhanas. Perhaps we might manage some private theatricals."

"Oh, we couldn't possibly!" protested Olga. "We could never get anything up in time."

But Noel was not to be discouraged. He proceeded to sketch out a lavish programme of entertainments with such energy and ingenuity that at length he managed to infuse her with some of his enthusiasm, and the end of dinner came upon her as a surprise.

Will, Hunt-Goring, Max, and Nick sat down to play bridge when it was finally over—at the suggestion of Hunt-Goring, who displayed not the smallest desire to seek her out. It seemed as though all memory of their former relations had passed completely from his mind. Neither by word nor look did he attempt to recall old times.

And gradually Olga became reassured. His fancy for her had quite obviously evaporated. He scarcely so much as glanced her way.

Could it have been mere coincidence that had brought him there? she began to ask herself. Stranger things had happened; and he was plainly on intimate terms with his hostess, rather more intimate than Daisy's manner seemed to justify. But then familiarity with women was one of his main characteristics, as she knew but too well. He had not been able to exercise this much at Weir. She suspected that boredom alone had induced him to pursue her so persistently.

In any case, it was over. He cared for her no more and was at no pains to conceal the fact, which she on her part recognized with profound relief.

She went with Daisy to the drawing-room, leaving the card-players established in Will's especial den. Noel airily accompanied them, and sang a few songs at the piano, as much for his own pleasure as theirs. He was in a particularly charming mood, and was evidently determined to enjoy himself to the utmost.

But he was not minded to give them too much of his society, and presently he slipped away to take a peep at Peggy.

"I shan't wake her," he said; but apparently he found his small adorer awake, for he did not return.

"He's a dear boy," said Daisy.

Olga assented warmly. "I shall love him for a brother."

Daisy smiled faintly. "Poor Noel! I'm afraid that is scarcely the sort of appreciation he wants."

Olga flushed. She was standing near the window, her girlish face outlined against the dark. Very young and slender she looked standing there, scarcely more than a child; and Daisy's heart went out to her in a sudden rush of almost passionate tenderness. She rose impulsively and joined her. She slipped a warm arm round her waist.

Olga glanced at her in momentary surprise, then swiftly responded to the caress. She leaned her cheek against Daisy's shoulder.

"You see," she said, "I met Max first."

"I see, dear," said Daisy. She hesitated a moment. "And Max is your ideal of all that a man should be?" she asked then.

"Oh, no!" said Olga. She gave a little laugh. "No; Nick is that, and always has been. I don't think anyone could idealize Max, do you?"

"But you love him?" said Daisy.

Olga looked at her with clear, direct eyes. "Oh, yes, I love him. But I don't try to think he is nicer than he really is. Nice or horrid, I love him just the same."

"Do you know any horrid things about him, then?" Daisy asked.

Olga laughed again. "I knew the horrid part of him first," she said. "Why, I—I almost hated him once."

"And then you changed your mind," said Daisy.

The love-light glowed softly in Olga's eyes as she answered, "Yes, dear Mrs. Musgrave; he made me."

Daisy uttered a sharp, involuntary sigh. "I hope he is all you believe him to be," she said.

"But why do you say that?" questioned Olga. "I'm afraid you don't like him."

Daisy hesitated. "I am afraid I know too much about him," she said at length.

Olga looked at her in surprise. "Has Noel been telling you things?"

Daisy shook her head.

"Oh, then it's that detestable Major Hunt-Goring!" said Olga, adding quickly: "Please forgive me for running down your guest; but he really is a hateful man."

"I don't care for him myself, dear," said Daisy.

"He has only come here to make mischief," said Olga, with conviction. "I guessed it the moment I saw him. He hates me because—because—" she faltered a little—"because I wouldn't marry him. As if I possibly could!" she ended fierily. "And as if he would have really liked it if I had!"

"Oh, is that it?" said Daisy, in a tone of enlightenment.

Olga nodded. "He's a beast, Mrs. Musgrave. And what has he been telling you about Max?"

Daisy hesitated. She was assailed by sudden misgiving. Was it all a ruse? She did not trust Major Hunt-Goring. She believed him fully capable of vindictiveness, and yet, so subtle had been his strategy, he had not seemed vindictive. He had repeated the story idly in the first place, and, finding she took it seriously, he had advised her to hold her peace. No, she would do him justice at least. She was convinced that he had not been deliberately malicious in this case. It had not been his intention to work evil.

"Tell me what he said!" said Olga.

Her tone was imperative; yet Daisy still hesitated. "Do you know, dear, I don't think I will," she said.

"Please—you must!" said Olga, with decision. "It concerns me as much as it does him."

"I am not sure that it really concerns either of you," Daisy said. "It was just a piece of gossip which may—or may not—have had any foundation."

"Still, tell me!" Olga insisted. "Forewarned is fore-armed, isn't it? And things do get so distorted sometimes, don't they?"

"Well, dear—" Daisy was beginning to wish herself well out of the matter—"it is not a pretty story. You and Nick may possibly have heard of it. Quite possibly you know it to be untrue. Major Hunt-Goring told me it was sheer gossip, and he would not vouch for the truth of it. It concerned the death of your friend Violet Campion."

"Ah!" said Olga. She breathed the word rather than uttered it. All the colour went out of her face. "Go on!" she whispered. "Go on!"

"You know the tale?" said Daisy.

"Tell me!" said Olga.

Reluctantly Daisy complied. "It was whispered that there had been an understanding between them, that the poor girl went mad with trouble, and that—to protect himself from scandal—he gave her a draught that ended her life."

Briefly, baldly, fell the words, spoken in an undertone, with evident unwillingness. They went out into silence, a silence that had in it something dreadful, something that no words could express.

It was many seconds before Daisy ventured a look at the girl's face, though her arm was still about her. When she did, she was shocked. For Olga was gazing straight before her with eyes wide and glassy—the eyes of the sleep-walker who stares upon visions of horror which no others see.

As Daisy moved, she moved also, went to the window, stepped straight out into the night. Dumbly Daisy watched her. She had obeyed her instinct in speaking, but now she knew not what to say or do.

Slowly at length Olga turned. She came back into the room. The glassy look had gone out of her eyes. She appeared quite normal. She went to Daisy, and laid gentle hands upon her shoulders.

"You did quite right to tell me," she said. "It is something that I certainly ought to know."

Her face was deathly, but she smiled bravely into Daisy's troubled eyes.

"My dear, my dear," Daisy said in distress, "I do pray that I haven't done wrong."

"You haven't," Olga said. "It was dear of you to tell me, and I'm very grateful."

She kissed Daisy very lovingly and let her go. There was nothing tragic in her manner, only an unwonted aloofness that kept the elder woman from attempting to pursue the subject.

The return of Noel a few minutes later was a relief to them both. He came in full of animation and merriment, precipitating himself upon them with a gaiety that overlooked all silences. As Daisy was wont to say, Noel was the most useful person she knew for filling in tiresome gaps. He did it instinctively, without so much as seeing them.

In his cheery company the rest of the evening slid lightly by. Olga encouraged him to be frivolous. She seemed to enjoy his society more than she had ever done before; and Noel was nothing loth to be encouraged.

When the card-players joined them, they were busily engaged in drawing up a programme for what Noel termed "the Bassett week," and so absorbed were they that they did not so much as glance up till Nick came between them and demanded to know what it was all about.

Max, cynically tolerant, looked on from afar; and Daisy, who had been feeling somewhat conscience-stricken at his entrance, rapidly found herself detesting him more heartily than ever. She was glad when Major Hunt-Goring drifted to her side and engaged her in conversation, and she more nearly resumed her old intimacy with him in consequence than she had done before.

The party broke up late, as Olga, Noel, and Nick continued their discussion until their elaborate schemes were complete. By that time Max and his host had retired for a final smoke, and had to be unearthed by Nick, who declared himself scandalized to find anyone still up at such an immoral hour.

Olga was standing with Noel, dressed for departure, waiting to go, when Hunt-Goring sauntered up to her.

"Well, Miss Ratcliffe," he said conversationally, "and how do you like India?"

It was the first time he had deliberately accosted her. She glanced up at him sharply, and made a slight, instinctive movement away from him. At once, albeit almost imperceptibly, Noel moved a little nearer to her. She was conscious of his intention to protect, and threw him a brief smile as she made reply.

"I am enjoying it very much."

"Really!" said Hunt-Goring. "And you are engaged to be married, I hear?"

Olga did not instantly reply. It was Noel who answered shortly: "Yes, to my brother. No objection, I suppose?"

It was aggressively spoken. Noel had quite obviously taken a dislike to the newcomer, a sentiment which Olga knew to be instantly reciprocated by the calm fashion in which Hunt-Goring ignored his intervention.

She found him waiting markedly for her reply, and braced herself to enter the arena. "Is it news to you?" she asked coldly.

He laughed his soft, hateful laugh. "Well, scarcely, since you, yourself, informed me of the approaching event some months before it took place."

Noel made a slight gesture of surprise, and the colour rose in a hot wave to Olga's face; but she looked steadily at Hunt-Goring and said nothing.

He went on, smoothly satirical. "I used to think the odds were in favour of Miss Campion, you know. You will pardon me for saying that I don't think there are many girls who could have cut her out."

Olga's face froze to a marble immobility. "There was no question of that," she said.

"No?" Hunt-Goring's urbanity scarcely covered his incredulity. "I fancied she took the opposite view. Well, well, the poor girl is dead and out of the running. I consider Max Wyndham is a very lucky man."

He spoke with significance and Noel's eyes, jealously watching Olga's face, saw her flinch ever so slightly. A hot wave of anger rose within him; his hands clenched. He turned upon Hunt-Goring.

"If you have anything offensive to say," he said, in a furious undertone, "say it to me, you damned coward!"

Hunt-Goring looked at him at last. "I beg your pardon?" he said.

Noel was on the verge of repeating his remark when, quick as a flash, Olga turned and caught his arm.

"Noel, please, please!" she gasped breathlessly. "Not here! Not now!"

He attempted to resist her, but she would not be resisted. With all her strength she pulled him away, her hands tightly clasped upon his arm. And it was thus that they came face to face with Max, sauntering in ahead of his host.

He glanced at them both, but showed no surprise, though both Olga's agitation and Noel's anger were very apparent.

"Look here, you two," he said, "Nick and I can't be kept waiting any longer. We value our beauty-sleep if you don't. And Mr. Musgrave is longing to see the last of us."

"Not at all," said Will courteously. "But Nick has suddenly developed a violent hurry to be gone. My wife is trying to pacify him, but she won't hold him in for long."

"Let us go!" said Olga. She took her hand from Noel's arm, but looked at him appealingly.

"All right," he said gruffly. "I suppose I had better go too."

"High time, I should say," observed his brother. "Good-night!"

Noel did not look at him or respond. He turned aside without a word, and left the room.

Max made no further comment of any sort, but Olga was aware of his green eyes studying her closely. Like Noel she avoided them. She shook hands hurriedly with Will, and went out to Nick and Daisy.

As Max turned to follow her, she heard Hunt-Goring's smiling voice behind him. "Good-bye, Dr. Wyndham! Delighted to have met you again—you and your fiancee. I have just been congratulating Miss Olga on her conquest."

Max went out as though the sneering words had not reached him, but his face was so grim when he said good-bye to Daisy that she felt almost too guilty to look at him. She held Olga to her very closely at the last, and saw her go with a passionate regret. Whether she had acted rightly or wrongly she did not know; but she felt that she had wrecked the girl's happiness, and the spontaneity of Olga's answering embrace did not reassure her.



CHAPTER XVI

THE GAP

"Now, my chicken, to roost!" said Nick.

He turned to give her his paternal embrace, but paused as Olga very slightly drew back from it.

They stood in the dining-room which they had entered on arrival. Max had lounged across to the mantelpiece, and propped himself against it in his favourite attitude. He looked on as it were from afar.

"Please," Olga said rather breathlessly, and she addressed Nick as though he were the only person in the room, "I want to ask you something before we say good-night."

"Something private?" asked Nick.

She put her hand to her throat; her face was ghastly. Her voice came with visible effort. "It concerns—Max," she said.

Max neither moved nor spoke. He was looking very fixedly at Olga. There was something merciless in his attitude.

Nick flashed a swift glance at him, and slipped his arm round the girl. She was quivering with agitation, yet she made as if she would free herself.

"Please, Nick!" she said imploringly. "I want to be strong. Help me to be strong!"

"All right, dear," he said gently. "You can count on me. What's the trouble? Hunt-Goring again?"

She shivered at the name. "No—no! At least—not alone. He hasn't worried me."

She became silent, painfully, desperately silent, while she fought for self-control.

Again Nick glanced across at Max. "Pour out a glass of wine!" he said briefly.

Max stood up. He went to the table, and very deliberately mixed a little brandy and water. His face, as he did it, was absolutely composed. He might have been thinking of something totally removed from the matter in hand.

Yet, as he turned round, the air of grimness was perceptible again. He held out the glass to Nick. "I think I'll go," he said.

"No!" It was Olga who spoke. She stretched out a detaining hand. "I want you—please—to stay. I—I—"

She faltered and stopped as Max's hand closed quietly and strongly upon hers.

"Very well," he said. "I'll stay. But drink this like a sensible girl! You're cold."

She obeyed him, leaning upon Nick's shoulder, and gradually the deadly pallor of her face passed. She drew her hand out of Max's grasp, and relinquished Nick's support.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," she said, and her voice came dull and oddly indifferent. "You are both so good to me. But I think one generally has to face the worst things in life by oneself. Nick, I asked you a little while ago to fill in a gap in my memory—to tell me something I had forgotten. Do you remember?"

"I do," said Nick. Like Max, he was watching her closely, but his eyes moved unceasingly; they glimmered behind his colourless lashes with a weird fitfulness.

Olga was looking straight at him. She had never stood in awe of Nick.

"You didn't do it," she said in the same level, tired voice. "You put me off. You refused to fill in the gap."

"Well?" said Nick. His tone was abrupt; for the first time in all her knowledge of him it sounded stern.

But Olga remained unmoved. "Would you refuse if I asked you to do it now?" she said.

"Perhaps," he answered.

She turned from him to Max. "You would refuse too?" she said, and this time there was a tremor of bitterness in her voice. "You always have refused."

"It happens to be my rule never to discuss my cases with anyone outside my profession," he said.

"And that was your only reason?" A sudden pale gleam shot up in Olga's eyes; she stiffened a little as though an electric current ran through her as she faced him.

"It is the only one I have to offer you," Max said.

He also sounded stern; and in a flash she grasped her position. They were ranged against her—the two she loved best in the world—leagued together to keep from her the truth. A quiver of indignation went through her. She turned abruptly from them both.

"You needn't take this trouble any longer," she said. "I—know!"

"What do you know?" It was Max's voice, curt and imperative.

He took a step forward; his hand was on her shoulder. But she wheeled and flung it from her with an exclamation that was almost a cry of horror.

"Don't touch me!" she said.

He stood confronting her, hard, pitiless, insistent. Of her gesture he took no notice whatever. "What do you know?" he repeated.

She answered him with breathless rapidity, as if compelled. "I know that you made her love you—that when you knew the truth about her you gave her up. I know that you ruined her first—and deserted her afterwards for me. I know that you terrified her into secrecy, and then, when—when her brain gave way and there was no way of escape for you—I know that you—that you—that you—"

Her lips stiffened. She could not say the word. For several seconds she strove with it inarticulately; then suddenly, wildly, she flung out her hands, urging him from her.

"Oh, go! Go! Go!" she cried. "Let me never see you again!"

He did not go. He stood absolutely still, watching her.

But she was scarcely aware of him any longer. For her strength had suddenly deserted her. She was sunk against the wall with her hands over her face, sobbing terrible, tearless sobs that shook her from head to foot.

Nick started towards her, but Max stretched out a powerful arm, and kept him back. "No, Nick," he said firmly. "This is my concern. You go, like a good chap. I'll come to you presently."

"I will not!" said Nick flatly.

He gripped the opposing arm at the elbow so that it doubled abruptly. But Max wheeled upon him on the instant and held him fast.

"Look here," he said, "I'm in earnest."

"So am I," said Nick.

They faced one another for a moment in open conflict; then half-contemptuously Max made an appeal.

"Don't let us be fools!" he said. "It's for her sake I want you to go. I'll tell you why later. If you butt in now, you will make the biggest mistake of your life."

"Take your hands off me!" said Nick.

He complied. Nick went straight to Olga. "Olga," he said, "for Heaven's sake, be reasonable! Give him a chance to set things straight!"

It was urgently spoken. His hand, vital and very insistent, closed upon one of hers, drawing it down from her face.

She looked at him with hunted eyes. "Nick," she said, "tell him—to go!"

"I can't, dear," he made answer. "You've made an accusation that no man could take lying down. You'll have to face it out now."

"But it's the truth!" she said.

"It's a damnable lie!" said Nick.

"Nick," it was Max's voice measured and deliberate, "will you leave me to deal with this?"

Olga's hand turned in Nick's and clung to it. "You needn't go, Nick," she said hurriedly.

"Yes, I'm going," said Nick. "You can come to me afterwards if you like. I shall be in my room."

He squeezed her hand and relinquished it. His yellow face was full of kindness, but she saw that he would not be persuaded to remain. In silence she watched him go.

Then slowly, reluctantly, she turned to Max. He was standing watching her with fixed, implacable eyes.

"Well?" he said, as she looked at him. "Do you really want me to deny this preposterous story?"

She leaned against the wall, facing him. She felt unutterably tired—as if she were too weary to take any further interest in anything. Neither his denial nor Nick's could make the tale untrue.

"It doesn't make much difference," she said drearily.

"Thanks!" said Max shortly.

And then, as if suddenly making up his mind, he came to her and took her almost roughly by the shoulders.

"Olga," he said, "how dare you believe this thing of me?"

She looked at him and her face quivered. "You have never told me the truth," she said.

"And so you are ready to believe any calumny," said Max. His hands pressed upon her; his red brows were drawn together.

At any other moment she would have deemed him formidable, but she was beyond fear just then.

"If you would only tell me what to believe—" she said.

"And if I won't?" He broke in upon her almost fiercely. "If I demand your trust on this point—as I have a right to demand it on every point—what then? Are you going to give me everything except that?"

She shook her head. "No, Max."

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

She answered him steadily enough. "I mean that unless you can tell me the truth—the truth, Max," there was a piteous touch in her repetition of the words—"I can never give you—anything."

"Meaning you won't marry me?" he said.

Steadily she answered him. "Yes, I mean just that."

He continued to hold her before him. His face grew harder, grimmer than before. "And you think I will suffer myself to be thrown over?" he said.

That pierced her lethargy, quickened her to resistance. "I think you have no choice," she said.

Max's jaw set itself like an iron clamp. "There you show your absolute ignorance," he said, "of me—and of yourself."

"You couldn't hold me against my will," she said quickly.

"Could I not?" said Max.

Something of fear crept about her heart, hastening its beat. But she faced him unflinching. "No," she said.

He was silent; but she had an inexplicable feeling that the green eyes were drawing her gradually, mercilessly, against her will. Yet she resisted them, summoning all her strength.

And then she became aware that his hold had tightened and grown close. She awoke to the fact very suddenly, as one coming out of a trance, and swiftly, nervously, she sought to free herself.

Instantly his arms were about her. He gathered her to him with a force that compelled. He crushed her lips with his own in kisses so fierce and so passionate that she winced from them in actual pain, not sparing her till she sank in his arms, spent, unresisting, crying against his shoulder.

He made no attempt to comfort her; his hold was sustaining, but grimly devoid of all tenderness. Later she knew that he had fought a desperate battle for her happiness and his own, and it was no moment for relaxation.

He spoke to her at last, curtly, over her bowed head, "And you think—you dare to think—that I have ever loved another woman."

"I don't know what to think," she whispered, hiding her face lower on his breast.

"Then think this," he said, and there was a ring of iron in his voice, "that for no slander whatever will I hold myself answerable, either to you or to anyone else. I shall not defend myself from it. I shall not deny it. And because of it I will not suffer myself to be jilted. Is that enough?"

He spoke with indomitable resolution, but there must have been some yielding quality in the last words, for she suddenly found strength to lift her head again and turn her face up to his.

"Max," she said imploringly, "I believe I have wronged you, and I do beg you to forgive me.—But, Max, there is one thing that—for my peace of mind—you must tell me. Please, Max, please!"

She set her clasped hands against him, beseeching him with her whole soul. He looked down into her eyes, and his own were no longer stern but quite impenetrable. He spoke no word.

"I have always known," she said, faltering a little under his look, "always felt that there was something—something strange about—Violet's sudden death. Max, tell me—tell me—she didn't—make away with herself?"

She uttered the question with a shrinking dread that seemed to run shuddering through her whole body. And because he did not instantly reply, her face whitened with a sick suspense.

"Oh, she didn't!" she gasped imploringly. "Say she didn't! I—I think it would break my heart if—if—if—that—had happened."

"You must remember that she was not responsible for her actions," Max said.

Olga was trembling all over. "Then she did?"

He avoided the question. "Her life was over," he said, "in any case."

"Then she did?" Again sharply she put the question, as though goaded thereto by an intolerable pain. "Max," she said, "oh, Max, I could bear anything better than that! I don't believe it of her! I can't believe it!"

"But why torture yourself in this way?" he said. "What do you gain by it?"

"Because I must, I must!" she answered feverishly. "I dream about her night after night—night after night. My mind is never at rest about her. She seems to be calling to me, trying to tell me something. And I never can get to her or hear what it is. It's all because I can't remember. And sometimes I feel as if I shall go mad myself with trying."

"Olga!" Briefly and sternly he checked her. "You are getting hysterical. Don't you think there has been enough of this? If you go any further, you will regret it."

"But I must know!" she said. "Max, was it so? Did she take her own life?"

"She did not!"

Quietly he answered her, so quietly that for a moment she could hardly believe that he had given a definite reply. She stared at him incredulously.

"You are telling me the truth?" she said piteously at length. "You won't try to deceive me any more?"

"I have told you the truth," he said.

"Then—then—" She still gazed at him with wide eyes, eyes in which a certain horror gradually dawned and spread. "I am sure she did not die a natural death," she said with conviction.

Max was silent, grimly, inexorably silent.

She disengaged herself slowly from him. Her forehead drew itself into the old painful lines. She passed an uncertain hand across it.

As if in answer to the gesture he spoke, bluntly, almost brutally. "If you will have it, you shall; but remember, it is final. Miss Campion was suffering from a hideous and absolutely incurable disease of the brain which had developed into homicidal madness. She might have lived for years—a blinded soul fettered to a brain of raving insanity. What her life would have been, only those who have seen can picture. But, mercifully for her—rightly or wrongly is not for me to say—her torment was brought to an early end. In fact, almost before it had begun, a friend gave her deliverance. She died—as you know—suddenly."

"Ah!" With a cry she broke in upon him. "It was—the pain-killer!"

"It was." He scarcely opened his lips to reply, and instantly closed them in a single unyielding line. His eyes never left her face.

As for Olga, she stood a moment, as one stunned past all feeling; then turned from him and moved away. "So it was—your doing," she said, in a curious, stifled voice as if she were scarcely conscious of speaking at all.

He did not answer her. The words scarcely demanded an answer.

She reached the table unsteadily, and sat down, leaning her elbow upon it, her chin on her hand. Her eyes gazed right away down far vistas unbounded by time or space.

"It isn't the first time, is it?" she said. "You did it once before. I suppose—" her voice dropped still lower; she seemed to be speaking to herself—"as a Keeper of the Door, you think you have the right."

"Will you tell me what you mean?" he said.

She did not turn her head. She still gazed upon invisible things. "Do you remember poor old Mrs. Stubbs? You helped her, didn't you, in the same way?"

"I?" said Max.

The utter astonishment of his voice reached her. She turned and looked at him. "She died in the same way," she said.

"But—great heavens above—not with my connivance!" he exclaimed.

She continued to look at him, but with that same far look, as though she saw many things besides. "Yet—you knew!" she said.

He made a curt gesture of repudiation. "I suspected—perhaps. I actually knew—nothing."

"I see," she said, with a faint smile. "She just slipped through—and you looked the other way."

"Nothing of the sort!" he said sternly. "I did my utmost—as I have always done my utmost—to prolong life. It is my duty—the first principle of my profession; and I hold it—I always have held it—as sacred."

"And yet—you let Violet's go," she said.

He swung round almost violently and turned his back. "I will not discuss that point any further," he said.

She looked at him with an odd dispassionateness. She still seemed to be searching the distant past. "You never liked her," she said at last slowly. "And she was horribly afraid of you—afraid of you!" A sudden tremor of awakening life ran through the words. The stunned look began to pass. Again the horror looked out of her eyes. "She was so afraid of you that—when she went mad—she tried to kill you. Ah, I see now!" She caught her breath sharply—"You—you were afraid too!"

He remained with his back turned upon her, motionless as a statue.

"And so—and so—" Her eyes came swiftly back to the present and saw him only. The horror in them had become vivid, anguished. She rose and stretched an accusing finger towards him. "That was why you ended her life!" she said. "It was—to save—your own!"

He wheeled round at that and faced her with that in his eyes which she had never before seen there—a look that sent the blood to her heart. "By Heaven, Olga," he said, "you go—rather far!"

He came towards her slowly. There was something terrible about him at that moment, something that held her fettered and dumb before him, though—so great was her horror—she would have given all she had to turn and flee.

He halted before her, looking down into her face with a curious intentness. "You really believe that?" he said. "You can't conceive such a thing as this—utterly and inexcusably wrong as I admit it to be—you can't conceive it to have been done from a motive of mercy?"

She shrank away from him as from a thing unclean. The impulse to escape was still strong upon her, urging her to a wild resistance. She met the pitiless eyes that watched her like a creature at bay. "You never did anything in mercy yet!" she said. "There is no mercy in you!"

"Indeed!" he said, and uttered a brief, grating laugh that made her shudder. "In that case, I'm afraid I can't help you any further. I'm at the end of my resources."

Olga drew herself together with a supreme effort, mustering all her strength. "It is the end of everything," she said. "I can never marry you now. I never want to see you again."

He met her look implacably, with eyes that seemed to beat down her own. "I have told you that I won't submit to that," he said.

She caught her breath with a convulsive movement of protest. Perhaps never before had she so clearly realized the ruthlessness of the man and his strength.

"I can't help it," she said. "I can never marry you. Even if—if we had been married, I could not have stayed with you—after this."

She saw his mouth harden to cruelty at her words, and instinctively she drew back from him; but in the same instant his hands closed upon her wrists and she was a captive.

"Doesn't it occur to you," he said, "that you are bound to me in honour—unless I set you free?"

He spoke with the utmost calmness, but her heart misgave her. She saw herself at his mercy, an impotent prisoner striving against him, vainly beating out her will against the iron of his. In that moment she realized fully that not by strength could she prevail, and desperately she began to plead.

"But you will set me free, Max! You wouldn't—you couldn't—hold me against my will!"

"Couldn't I?" said Max, and grimly smiled. "There is nothing whatever that I couldn't do with you, Olga,—with—or without—your will."

She shivered sharply and uncontrollably, not attempting to contradict him.

"And that being so," he said, "it is not my intention to set you free. There is no earthly reason why you should not marry me, and therefore I hold you to your engagement. That is quite understood, is it?"

His hold tightened upon her. She saw that he meant every word, and her heart died within her. Her strength was running out swiftly, swiftly. Very soon it would be utterly gone. She cast a desperate glance upwards, and made one last supreme effort. "But, Max," she pleaded, "I thought you loved me."

His face was set in iron lines, but she thought it softened ever so slightly at her words. Had she pierced the one vulnerable point in his armour at last? She wondered, scarcely daring to hope.

"Well?" he said.

Only the one word; but somehow, inexplicably, her heart cried shame upon her, as though she had put a good weapon to an unworthy use. She stood before him, trying vainly to drive it home. But she could not. Further words failed her.

"I see," he said at last. "You think out of my love for you I ought to be willing to give you up. Is that it?"

She nodded mutely, not daring to look at him, still overwhelmed with that shamed sense of doing him a wrong.

"I see," he said again. "And—if it would be for your happiness to let you go—I might perhaps be equal to the sacrifice." His voice was suddenly cynical, and she never guessed that he cloaked an unwanted emotion therewith. "But take the other view of the case. You know you would never be happy away from me."

"I couldn't be happy with you—now," she murmured.

He bent slightly towards her as if not sure that he had heard aright. "Do you really mean that?" he asked.

She was silent.

"Olga!" he said insistently.

Against her will she raised her eyes, and met his close scrutiny. Against her will she answered him, breathlessly, out of a fevered sense of expediency. "Yes—yes, I do mean it! Oh, Max, you must—you must let me go!"

But he held her still. "You have appealed to my love," he said. "I appeal to yours."

But that was more than she could bear; the sudden tension snapped the last shreds of her quivering strength. She broke down utterly, standing there between his hands.

He made no attempt to draw her to him. Perhaps he did not wholly trust himself. Neither did he let her go; but there was no element of cruelty about him any longer. In silence, with absolute patience, he waited for her.

She made a slight effort at last to free herself, and instantly he set her free. She sat down again at the table, striving desperately for self-control. But she could not even begin to speak to him, so choked and blinded was she by her tears.

A while longer he waited beside her; then at length he spoke. "If you really honestly feel that you can't marry me, that to do so would make for misery and not happiness; if in short your love for me is dead—I will let you go."

The words fell curt and stern, but if she had seen his face at the moment she would have realized something of what the utterance of them cost.

But her own face was hidden, her paroxysm of weeping yet shook her uncontrollably.

"Is it dead?" he said, and stooped over her, holding the back of her chair but not touching her.

She made a convulsive movement, whether of flinching from his close proximity or protest at his words it was impossible to say.

He waited a moment or two. Then: "If it isn't," he said, "just put your hand in mine!"

He laid his own upon the table before her, upturned, ready to clasp hers. His face was bent so low over her that his lips were almost on her hair. She could have yielded herself to his arms without effort.

But she only stiffened at his action, and became intensely still. In the seconds that followed she did not so much as breathe. She was as one turned to stone.

For the space of a full minute he waited; and through it the wild beating of her heart rose up in the stillness, throbbing audibly. But still she sat before him mutely, making no sign.

Then, after what seemed to her an eternity of waiting, very quietly he straightened himself and took his hand away.

She shrank away involuntarily with a nervous contraction of her whole body. For that moment she was unspeakably afraid.

But he gave her no cause for fear. He bore himself with absolute self-possession.

"Very well," he said. "That ends it. You are free."

With the words he turned deliberately from her, walked to the door, passed quietly out. And she was left alone.



CHAPTER XVII

THE EASIEST COURSE

"I won't be a party to it," said Nick.

"You can't help yourself."

Bluntly Max made reply. He lounged against the window while his host dressed. The presence of the stately khitmutgar who was assisting Nick was ignored by them both.

"I can generally manage to help myself," observed Nick.

Max's mouth took its most cynical downward curve. "You see, old chap, this chances to be one of the occasions on which you can't. It's my funeral, not yours."

Nick sent a brief glance across. "You're a fool, Max," he said.

"Thanks!" said Max. He took his pipe from his pocket and commenced to fill it with extreme care. There was something grimly ironical about his whole bearing. He did not speak again till his task was completed and the pipe alight. Then very deliberately through a cloud of rank smoke, he took up his tale. "It is one of the most interesting cases that have ever come under my notice. I am only sorry that I shall not be able to continue to keep it under my own personal supervision."

Nick laughed, a crude, cracked laugh. "It seems a pity certainly, since you came to India for that express purpose. I suppose you think it's up to me to continue the treatment?"

"Exactly," said Max.

"Well, I'm not going to." Again Nick's eyes flashed a keen look at Max's imperturbable countenance. "I held my peace last night," he said, "because matters were too ticklish to be tampered with. But as to keeping it up——-"

Max thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "As to keeping it up," he said, "you've no choice; neither have I. It may be a matter for regret from some points of view, but a matter of the most urgent expediency it undoubtedly is. I tell you plainly, Nick, this is not a thing to be played with. There are some risks that no one has any right to take. This is one."

He looked at Nick, square-jawed and determined; but Nick vigorously shook his head.

"I am not with you. I don't agree. I never shall agree."

Max's cynical smile became more pronounced. "Then you will have to act against your judgment for once. There is no alternative. And I shall go Home by the first boat I can catch."

"And leave her to fret her heart out," said Nick.

Max removed his pipe, and attentively regarded the bowl. After nearly a minute he put it back again and stared impenetrably at Nick. "She won't do that," he said.