I clambered down on to the pavement, and Lady Delahaye advanced a little way to meet me. She held out a delicately gloved hand, and smiled.

"You must forgive my laughing, Arnold," she said. "Really, you looked too funny in that terrible cart. What an odd meeting, isn't it? Have you a few minutes to spare?"

"I believe," I answered, "that I cannot get away from this place till the evening. Shall we go in and sit down?"

She shook her head.

"The inn-parlour is too stuffy," she answered. "I was obliged to come out myself for some fresh air. Let us walk up the street."

I paid for my conveyance, and we strolled along the broad sidewalk. Lady Delahaye seemed inclined to thrust the onus of commencing our conversation upon me.

"I presume," I said, "that we are here with the same object?"

She glanced at me curiously.

"Indeed!" she remarked. "Then tell me why you came."

"To discover that child's parentage, if possible," I answered promptly. "I want to discover who her friends are, who really has the right to take charge of her."

"You perplex me, Arnold," she said thoughtfully. "I do not understand your position in the matter. I always looked upon you as a somewhat indolent person. Yet I find you now taking any amount of trouble in a matter which really does not concern you at all. Whence all this good-nature?"

"Lady Delahaye——"

"Eileen," she interrupted softly.

"Lady Delahaye," I answered firmly. "You must forgive me if I remind you that I have no longer the right to call you by any other name. I am not good-natured, and I am afraid that I am still indolent. Nevertheless, I am interested in this child, and I intend to do my utmost to prevent her returning to this place."

"I am still in the dark," she said, looking at me curiously. "She is nothing to you. A more unsuitable home for her than with three young men I cannot imagine. You seem to want to keep her there. Why? She is a child to-day, it is true—but in little more than a year's time she will be a woman. The position then for you will be full of embarrassments."

"I find the position now," I answered, "equally embarrassing. We can only give the child up to you, send her back to the convent, or keep her ourselves. Of the three we prefer to keep her."

"You seem to have a great distaste for the convent," she remarked, "but that is because you are not a Catholic, and you do not understand these things. She would at least be safe there, and in time, I think, happy."

We were at the head of the village street now, upon a slight eminence. I pointed backwards to the prison-like building, standing grim and desolate on the bare hillside.

"I should consider myself no less a murderer than the man who shot your husband," I answered, "if I sent her there. I have made all the enquiries I could in the neighbourhood, and I have added to them my own impressions. The secular part of the place may be conducted as other places of its sort, but the great object of Madame Richard's sister is to pass her pupils from that into the religious portion. Isobel is not adapted for such a life."

Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders.

"Well," she said, "I am a Catholic, so of course I don't agree with you. But why do you hesitate to give the child up to me?"

I was silent for a moment. It was not easy to put my feeling into words.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you must forgive my reminding you that on the occasion of your visit to us you did not attempt to conceal the fact that your feelings towards her were inimical. Beyond that, I was pledged not to hand her back into your husband's care, and——"

"Pledged by whom?" she asked quickly.

"I am afraid," I said, "that I cannot answer you that question."

She flashed an angry glance upon me.

"You pretend that the man who called himself Grooten was not your friend. Yet you have been in communication with him since!"

"I saw Mr. Grooten for the first time in my life on the morning of that day," I answered.

"You know where he is now?" she asked, watching me keenly.

"I have not the slightest idea. I wish that I did know," I declared truthfully. "There is no man whom I am more anxious to see."

"You would, of course, inform the police?" she asked.

"I am afraid not," I answered.

Again she was angry. This time scarcely without reason.

"Your sympathies, in short, are with the murderer rather than with his victim—the man who was shot without warning in the back? It accords, I presume, with your idea of fair play?"

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "the subject is unpleasant and futile. Let us return to the inn."

She turned abruptly around. She made a little motion as of dismissal, but I remained by her side.

"By-the-bye," I said, "we were to exchange confidences. You are here, of course, to visit the convent? Why?"

She smiled enigmatically.

"I am not sure, my very simple conspirator," she said, "whether I will imitate your frankness. You see, you have blundered into a somewhat more important matter than you have any idea of. But I will tell you this, if you like. You may call that place a prison, or any hard names you please—yet it is destined to be Isobel's home. Not only that, but it is her only chance. I am putting you on your guard, you see, but I do not think that it matters. You are fighting against hopeless odds, and if by any chance you should succeed, your success would be the most terrible thing which could happen to Isobel."

I walked by her side for a moment in silence. There was in her words and tone some underlying note of fear, some suggestion of hidden danger, which brought back to my mind at once the farewell speech of Madame Richard. There was something ominous, too, in her presence here.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, as lightly as possible, "you have told me a great deal, and less than nothing at all. Yet I gather that you know more about the child and her history than you have led me to suppose."

"Yes," she admitted, "that is perhaps true."

"Why not let me share your knowledge?" I suggested boldly.

"You carry candour," she remarked, smiling, "to absurdity. We are on opposite sides. Ah, how delicious this is!"

We were regaining the centre of the little town by a footpath which for some distance had followed the river, and now, turning almost at right angles, skirted a cherry orchard in late blossom. The perfume of the pink and white buds, swaying slightly in the breeze, came to us both—a waft of delicate and poignant freshness. Lady Delahaye stood still, and half closed her eyes.

"How perfectly delicious," she murmured. "Arn—Mr. Greatson, do get me just the tiniest piece. I can't quite reach."

I broke off a small branch, and she thrust it into the bosom of her dress. The orchard was gay with bees and a few early butterflies, blue and white and orange coloured. In the porch of a red-tiled cottage a few yards away a girl was singing. Suddenly I stopped and pointed.

"Look!"

An avenue with a gate at the end led through the orchard, and under the drooping boughs we caught a glimpse of the convent away on the hillside. Greyer and more stern than ever it seemed through the delicate framework of soft green foliage and blossoms.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you are yourself a young woman. Could you bear to think of banishing from your life for ever all the colour and the sweet places, all the joy of living? Would you be content to build for yourself a tomb, to commit yourself to a living death?"

She answered me instantly, almost impulsively.

"There is all the difference in the world," she declared. "I am a woman; although I am not old, I know what life is. I know what it would be to give it up. But the child—she knows nothing. She is too young to know what lies before her. As yet her eyes are not opened. Very soon she would be content there."

I shook my head. I did not agree with Lady Delahaye.

"Indeed no!" I protested. "You reckon nothing for disposition. In her heart the song of life is already formed, the joy of it is already stirring in her blood. The convent would be slow torture to her. She shall not go there!"

Lady Delahaye smiled—mirthlessly, yet as one who has some hidden knowledge which she may not share.

"You think yourself her friend," she said. "In reality you are her enemy. If not the convent, then worse may befall her."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"As to that," I said, "we shall see!"

We resumed our walk. Again we were nearing the inn. Lady Delahaye looked at me every now and then curiously. My feeling towards her had grown more and more belligerent.

"You puzzle me, Arnold," she said softly. "After all, Isobel is but a child. What cunning tune can she have played upon your heartstrings that you should espouse her cause with so much fervour? If she were a few years older one could perhaps understand."

I disregarded her innuendo.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "if you were as much her friend as I believe that I am, you would not hesitate to tell me all that you know. I have no other wish than to see her safe, and amongst her friends, but I will give her up to no one whom I believe to be her enemy."

"Arnold," she answered gravely, "I can only repeat what I have told you before. You are interfering in greater concerns than you know of. Even if I would, I dare not give you any information. The fate of this child, insignificant in herself though she is, is bound up with very important issues."

Our eyes met for a moment. The expression in hers puzzled me—puzzled me to such an extent that I made her no answer. Slowly she extended her hand.

"At least," she said, "let us part friends—unless you choose to be gallant and wait here for me until to-morrow. It is a dreary journey home alone."

I took her hand readily enough.

"Friends, by all means," I answered, "but I must get back to Paris to-night. A messenger from Madame Richard is already waiting for me in London."

She withdrew her hand quickly, and turned away.

"It must be as you will, of course," she said coldly. "I do not wish to detain you."

Nevertheless, her farewell look haunted me as I sped across the great fertile plain on my way to Paris.



CHAPTER XI

Mabane laid down his brush, Arthur sprang from his seat upon the table and greeted me with a shout. Isobel said nothing, but her dark blue eyes were fastened upon my face as though seeking to read her fate there. They had evidently been waiting for my coming. I remember thinking it strange, even then, that these other two men should apparently share to the fullest degree my own interest in the child's fate.

"I have failed," I announced shortly.

I took Isobel's hand. It was cold as ice, and I could feel that she was trembling violently.

"Madame Richard would tell me nothing, Isobel," I said. "I believe that she knows all about you, and I believe that Lady Delahaye does too. But they will tell me nothing."

"And?" she demanded, with quivering lips. "And?"

"It is for you to decide," I said gravely. "Lady Delahaye wants you, so does Madame Richard. On the other hand, if you like to stay with us until someone proves their right to take you away, you will be very welcome, Isobel! Stop one moment," I added hastily, for I saw the quick colour stream into her cheeks, and the impetuous words already trembling upon her lips, "I want you to remember this: Madame Richard makes no secret of her own wishes as regards your future. She desires you to take the veil. You have lived at the convent, so I presume you are able to judge for yourself as regards that. Lady Delahaye, on the other hand, is a rich woman, and she professes to be your friend. Your life with her, if she chose to make it so, would be an easy and a pleasant one. We, as you know, are poor. We have very little indeed to offer you. We live what most people call a shiftless life. We have money one day, and none the next. Our surroundings and our associations are not in the least like what a child of your age should become accustomed to. Nine people out of ten would probably pronounce us utterly unsuitable guardians for you. It is only right that you should understand these things."

She looked at me with tear-bedimmed eyes.

"I want to stay with you," she pleaded. "Don't send me away—oh, don't! I hate the convent, and I am afraid of Lady Delahaye. I will do everything I can not to be a nuisance to you. I am not afraid to work, or to help Mrs. Burdett. Only let me stay."

I smiled, and looked around at the others.

"It is settled," I declared. "We appoint ourselves your guardians. You agree, Mabane?"

"Most heartily," he answered.

"And you, Arthur?"

"Great heavens, yes!" he answered vehemently.

"You are very good," she murmured, "very good to me. All my life I shall remember this."

She held out both her hands. Her eyes were fixed still upon mine. Mabane laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"Dear child," he said, "do not forget that there are three of us. I too am very happy to be one of your guardians."

She gave him the hand which Arthur had seized upon. I think that we had none of us before seen a smile so dazzling as hers.

"Dear friends," she murmured, "I only hope that you will never regret this great, great kindness."

Then suddenly she flitted away and went to her room. We three men were left alone.

I think that for the first few moments there was some slight awkwardness, for we were men, and we spoke seldom of the things which touched us most. Arthur, however, broke almost immediately into speech, and relieved the tension.

"And to think that it was I," he exclaimed, "who sent you out plot hunting to the station! Arnold, what a sensible chap you are!"

We all laughed.

"A good many people," Mabane remarked quietly, "would call us three fools. Tell us, Arnold, did you really discover nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing," I declared. "Stop, though. I did find out this. There is some secret about the child's parentage. I have spoken with two people who know it, and one of them warned me that in keeping the child we were interfering in a greater matter than we had any idea of. Of course it might have been a bluff, but I fancy that Lady Delahaye was in earnest."

"You do not think," Mabane asked, "that she was Major Delahaye's daughter?"

"I do not," I answered, with a little shudder. "I am sure that she was not."

"Whoever she is," Arthur declared, "there's one thing jolly certain, and that is she's thoroughbred. She has the most marvellous nerve I ever knew. We got in a tight corner this morning. I took her down to Guildford in a trailer, and I had to jump the pavement to avoid a runaway. She never flinched for a moment. Half the girls I know would have squealed like mad. She only laughed, and asked whether she should get out. She's as thoroughbred as they make them."

"Perhaps," I answered, "but I'm not going to have you risk her life with your beastly motoring, Arthur. Take her out in a car, if you want to. Who's this?"

We turned towards the door. Was it the ghost of Madame Richard who stood there pale, cold, and in the sombre garb of her sisterhood?

"This lady has been before," Mabane said, placing a chair for her. "She has come from the convent, and she brought a letter from Madame Richard."

"You are Mr. Greatson?" she asked.

I bowed, and took the letter which she handed to me. I tore it open. It contained a few lines only.

"SIR,—

"I have been informed of the unfortunate event which has placed under your protection one of my late pupils, Isobel de Sorrens. We are willing and anxious to receive her back here, and I have sent the bearer to accompany her upon the journey. She will also defray what expenses her sojourn with you may have occasioned.

"I am, sir, yours respectfully,

"EMILY RICHARD."

I put the letter back in the envelope and laid it upon the table.

"I have seen Madame Richard," I said. "The child will remain with us for the present."

The cold, dark eyes met mine searchingly.

"But, monsieur," the woman said, "how can that be? You are not a relative, you surely have no claim——"

"It will save time, perhaps," I interrupted, "if I explain that I have discussed all these matters with Madame Richard, and the decision which I have come to is final. The child remains here."

The woman looked at me steadfastly.

"Madame Richard will not be satisfied with that decision," she said. "You will be forced to give her up."

"And why," I asked, "should a penniless orphan, as I understand Isobel is, be of so much interest to Madame Richard?"

The woman watched me still, and listened to my words as though seeking to discover in them some hidden meaning. Then she leaned a little towards me.

"Can I speak with you alone, monsieur?" she said.

"These are my friends," I answered, "from whom I have no secrets."

"None?"

"None," I repeated.

She hesitated. Then, although the door was fast closed, she dropped her voice.

"You know—who the child is," she said softly.

"Upon my word, I do not," I answered. "I saw the man, under whose care she was, shot, and I brought her here because she was friendless. I know no more about her."

"That," she said quietly, "is hard to believe."

"I have no interest in your belief or disbelief," I answered. "Pardon me if I add, madame, that I have no interest in the continuation of this conversation."

She rose at once.

"You are either a very brave man," she said, "or a very simple one. I shall await further instructions from Madame Richard."

She departed silently and without any leave-taking. We all three looked at one another.

"Now what in thunder did she mean by that!" Arthur exclaimed blankly.

"It appears to me," Mabane said, "that you went plot hunting with a vengeance, Arnold."

Arthur was walking restlessly up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, a discontented frown upon his smooth young face. He stopped suddenly in front of us.

"I don't know much about the law, you fellows," he said, "but it seems to me that any of these people who seem to want to take Isobel away from us have only to go before the court and establish some sort of a legal claim, and we should have to give her up."

"That is true enough," I admitted. "The strange part of it is, though, that no one seems inclined to take this course."

Arthur threw down a letter upon the table.

"This came for you yesterday, Arnold," he said. "I haven't opened it, of course, but you can see from the name at the back of the envelope that it is from a firm of solicitors."

I took it up and opened it at once. I knew quite well what Arthur feared. This is what I read—

"17, LINCOLN'S INN, LONDON.

"DEAR SIR,—

"We beg to inform you that we have been instructed by a client, who desires to remain anonymous, to open for you at the London and Westminster Bank an account on your behalf as guardian of Miss Isobel de Sorrens, a young lady who, we understand, is at present in your care.

"The amount placed at our disposal is three hundred a year. We shall be happy to furnish you with cheque book and full authority to make use of this sum if you will favour us with a call, accompanied by the young lady, but we are not in a position to afford you any information whatever as to our client's identity.

"Trusting to have the pleasure of seeing you shortly,

"We are, yours truly,

"HAMILTON & PLACE."

I laid the letter on the table without a word. Mabane and Arthur in turn read it. Then there was an ominous silence. I think that we all had the same thought. It was Arthur, however, who expressed it.

"What beastly rot!" he exclaimed.

I turned to Mabane.

"I imagine," he said, "that we should not be justified in refusing this offer. At the same time, if anyone has the right to provide for the child, why do they not come forward and claim her?"

At that moment Isobel came in. I took up the letter and placed it in her hand.

"Isobel," I said, "we want you to read this."

She read it, and handed it back to me without a word. We were all watching her eagerly. She looked at me appealingly.

"Is it necessary," she asked, "for me to accept this money?"

"Tell us," I said, "exactly how you feel."

"I think," she said, "that if there is anyone from whom I have the right to accept all this money, I ought to know who they are. I do not want to be a burden upon anyone," she added hesitatingly, "but I would rather work every moment of the day—oh, I think that I would rather starve than touch this money, unless I know who it is that offers it."

I laughed as I tore the letter in half.

"Dear child," I said, resting my hand upon her shoulder, "that is what we all hoped that you would say!"



CHAPTER XII

Lady Delahaye sank down upon the couch against which I had been standing.

"Poor, bored man!" she exclaimed, with mock sympathy. "I ought to have asked some entertaining people, oughtn't I? There isn't a soul here for you to talk to!"

"On the contrary," I answered, "there are a good many more people here than I expected to see. I understood that you were to be alone."

"And you probably think that I ought to be," she remarked. "Well, I never was conventional. You know that. I shut myself up for a month. Now I expect my friends to come and console me."

"It is not likely," I said, "that you will be disappointed."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Perhaps not. Those whom I do not want will come, of course. As for the others—well!"

She looked up at me. I sat down by her side.

"Ah! That is nice of you," she said softly. "I wanted to have a quiet talk. Tell me why you are looking so glum."

"I was not conscious of it," I answered. "To tell you the truth, I was wondering whether Isobel were not a little young to bring to a gathering of this description."

"My dear Arnold," she murmured, "there are only one or two of my particular friends here. The rest dropped in by accident. Isobel does not seem to me to be particularly out of place, and she is certainly enjoying herself."

The echoes of her light laugh reached us just then. Several men were standing over her chair. She was the centre of what seemed to be a very amusing conversation. Arthur was standing on the outskirts of the group, apparently a little dull.

"She enjoys herself always," I answered. "She is of that disposition. Still——"

She put her hands up to her ears.

"Come, I won't be lectured," she exclaimed. "Seriously, I wanted you here. I had something to say to you—something particular."

"Waiving the other matter, then," I said, "I am wholly at your service."

"I may be prolix," she said quietly. "Forgive me if I am, but I want you to understand me. I am beginning to see that I have adopted a wrong position with regard to a certain matter which we have discussed at your rooms and at Argueil. I want to reopen the subject from an entirely different point of view."

"You mean," I said, "the subject of Isobel?"

"Of course! The first time I came to see you," Lady Delahaye said, looking up at me with penitence in her blue eyes, "I was horrid. I am very, very sorry. I did not know then who Isobel was, and I was angry with everyone—with poor Will, with the child herself, and with you. You must forgive me! I was very much upset."

"I will never think of it again," I promised her.

"Then, again, at Argueil," she continued, "I adopted a wrong tone altogether. Yours was the more natural, the more human point of view. There are certain very grave reasons why the child would be very much better out of the world. A life of seclusion would, I believe, in the end, when she is able to understand, be the happiest for her. And yet—she ought to have her chance!"

"I am glad that you admit that," I murmured.

"Now I am going to ask you something," she went on. "You will not be angry with me, I am sure. Do you think that a girl of Isobel's age and appearance is in her proper place in bachelor quarters, living with three young men?"

"I do not," I admitted. "I look upon it as a most regrettable necessity. Still, you must not make it sound worse than it is. We have a housekeeper who is the very essence of respectability, and Isobel is under her care."

"I want to make it no longer a necessity," Lady Delahaye said, smiling. "I want to relieve you and your conscience at the same time of a very awkward incubus. Listen! This is what I propose. Let Isobel come to me for a year! I shall treat her as my own daughter. She will have plenty of amusement. There are the theatres, and no end of scratch entertainments where one can take a girl of her age who is too young for society. She will mix with young people of her own age, she will have every advantage which, to speak frankly, must be denied to her in her present position. At the end of that year I shall tell her her history. It is a sad and a miserable one. You may as well know that now. She can then take her choice of the convent, or any other mode of life which between us we can make possible for her. And I am very much inclined to believe, Arnold, that she will choose the convent."

"Is there any real reason, Lady Delahaye?" I asked, "why you should not tell me now what you propose to tell Isobel in a year's time? There have been so many mysterious circumstances in connection with this affair that it is hard to come to any decision when one is ignorant of so much."

"There are reasons—grave reasons—why I can tell you nothing," she answered. "Indeed, I would like to, Arnold," she continued earnestly, "but my position is a very difficult one. I think that you might trust me a little."

"I am sure that you wish to do what is best," I said, a little awkwardly, "but you must see that my position also is a little difficult. I, too, am under a promise!"

Her eyes flashed indignantly.

"To the man who killed my husband! The man whom you are shielding!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I think that you might at least have the grace to leave him out of the conversation."

"I have never introduced him," I answered. "I do not wish to do so. As to shielding him, I have not the slightest idea as to his whereabouts. Be reasonable, Lady Delahaye. I——"

"Reasonable," she interrupted. "That is what I want you to be! Ask yourself a plain question. Which is the more fitting place for her—my house, or your chambers?"

She pointed to Isobel, who was leaning back in her chair laughing heartily into the face of a young man who was bending over her. By chance she looked just then older even than her years, and Arthur's glum figure, too, in the background was suggestive.

"Your house, without a doubt," I answered gravely, "if it is the house of a friend."

Her satin slipper beat the ground impatiently. She looked at me with a frown upon her face.

"Do you believe, then," she asked, "that I am her enemy? Does my offer sound like it?"

"Indeed, no," I answered, rising. "I am going to give Isobel herself a chance of accepting or declining it."

I crossed the room. Isobel, seeing me come, rose at once.

"Is it time for us to go?" she asked.

"Not quite!" I answered. "Go and talk to Lady Delahaye for a few minutes. She has something to say to you."

Isobel made a little grimace, so slight that only I could notice it, and took my place upon the sofa. I talked for a few minutes with some of the men whom I knew, and then Arthur touched me on the arm.

"Can't we go, Arnold?" he exclaimed, a little peevishly. "I've never been so bored in all my life."

"We must wait for a few minutes," I answered. "Isobel is talking to Lady Delahaye."

"I don't know a soul here, and I'm dying for a cigarette."

I pointed through the curtain to the anteroom adjoining.

"You can smoke in there," I remarked. "I'll introduce you to Miss Ernston if you like, the girl who drives the big Panhard in the park. I heard her say that she was going in there to get one of Lady Delahaye's Russian cigarettes!"

Arthur shook his head. He was covertly watching Isobel, sitting on the sofa.

"I'll go in and have the cigarette," he said, "but, Arnold, there's no fresh move on, is there? You're looking pretty glum!"

I shook my head.

"No, there is nothing exactly fresh," I answered. "Come along and smoke, will you! I want Lady Delahaye and Isobel to have their talk out."

He followed me reluctantly into the smaller of Lady Delahaye's reception-rooms, where we smoked for a few minutes in silence. Then Mabel Ernston stopped to speak to me for a moment, and I introduced Arthur. I left them talking motors, and stepped back into the other room. Isobel had already risen to her feet, and Lady Delahaye was looking at her curiously as though uncertain how far she had been successful. She saw me enter, and beckoned me to approach.

"I think that Isobel is tired," she said, in a tone which was meant to be kind. "She has promised to come and see me again."

Isobel looked at me. Her mouth, which a few minutes before had been curved with smiles, was straight now, and resolutely set. She was distinctly paler, and her manner seemed to have acquired a new gravity. I must confess that my first impulse was one of relief. Isobel had not found Lady Delahaye's offer, then, so wonderfully attractive.

"Do you mind coming home now, Arnold?" she asked. "I did not know that it was so late."

I saw Lady Delahaye's face darken at her simple use of my Christian name, and the touch of her fingers upon my arm. Arthur heard our voices, and came to us at once. So we took leave of our hostess, and turned homewards.

For a long time we walked almost in silence. Then Isobel turned towards me with a new gravity in her face, and an unusual hesitation in her tone.

"Arnold," she said, "Lady Delahaye has been pointing out to me one or two things which I had not thought of before. I suppose she meant to be kind. I suppose it is right that I should know. But——" her voice trembled—"I wish she had not told me."

"Lady Delahaye is an interfering old cat!" Arthur exclaimed viciously. "Don't take any notice of her, Isobel."

"But I must know," she answered, "whether the things which she said were true."

"They were probably exaggerations," I said cheerfully; "but let us hear them, at any rate."

"She said," Isobel continued, looking steadily in front of her, "that you were all three very poor indeed, and that I had no right to come and live with you, and make you poorer still, when I had a home offered me elsewhere. She said that I should disturb your whole life, that you would have to give up many things which were a pleasure to you, and you would not be able to succeed so well with your work, as you would have to write altogether for money. And she said that I should be grown up soon, and ought to live where there are women; and when I told her about Mrs. Burdett she laughed unpleasantly, and said that she did not count at all. And that is why—she wants me—to go there!"

Again the shadow of tragedy gleamed in the child's white face. Her face was strained, her eyes had lost the deep softness of their colouring, and there lurked once more in their depths the terror of nameless things. To me the sight of her like this was so piteous that I wasted not a moment in endeavouring to reassure her.

"Rubbish!" I exclaimed cheerfully. "Sheer and unadulterated rubbish! We are not rich, Isobel, but the trifle the care of you will cost us amounts to nothing at all. We are willing and able to take charge of you as well as we can. You know that!"

Ah! She drew a long sigh of relief. It was wonderful how her face changed.

"But why is Lady Delahaye so cruel—why is she so anxious that I should not stay with you?" she said.

I laughed.

"Lady Delahaye is mysterious," I answered. "I have come to the conclusion, Isobel, that you must be a princess in disguise, and that Lady Delahaye wants to claim all the rewards for having taken charge of you!"

"Don't be silly!" she laughed. "Princesses are not brought up at Madame Richard's, without relations or friends to visit them, and no pocket money."

"Nevertheless," I answered, "when I consider the number of people who are interested in you, and Lady Delahaye's extraordinary persistence, I am inclined to stick to my theory. We shall look upon you, Isobel, as an investment, and some day you shall reward us all."

Her hand slipped into mine. Her eyes were soft enough now.

"Dear friend," she murmured, "I think that it is my heart only which will reward you—my great, great gratitude. I am afraid of Lady Delahaye, Arnold. There are things in her eyes when she looks at me which make me shiver. Do not let us go there again, please!"

Arthur broke in impetuously.

"You shall go nowhere you don't want to, Isobel. Arnold and I will see to that."

"And—about the other thing—she mentioned," Isobel began.

"She was right and wrong," I answered. "Of course, it would be better for you if one of us had a sister or a mother living with us, but Mrs. Burdett has always seemed to us like a mother, and I think—that it will be all right," I concluded a little lamely. "We need not worry about that, at present at any rate. Come, we've had a dull afternoon, and I sold a story yesterday. Let's go to Fasolas, and have a half-crown dinner."

"I'm on," Arthur declared. "We'll go and fetch Allan."

"You dear!" Isobel exclaimed. "I shall wear my new hat!"



Book II



CHAPTER I

"I have no doubt," Mabane said gloomily, "that Arthur is right. He ought to know more about it than old fogies like you and me, Arnold. We had the money, and we ought to have insisted upon it. You gave way far too easily."

"That's all very well," I protested, "but I don't take in a woman's fashion paper, and Isobel assured us that the hat was all right. She looks well enough in it, surely!"

"Isobel looks ripping!" Arthur declared, "but then, she looks ripping in anything. All the same, the hat's old-fashioned. You look at the hats those girls are wearing, who've just come in—flat, bunchy things, with flowers under the brim. That's the style just now."

"Isobel shall have one, then," I declared. "We will take her West to-morrow. We can afford it very well."

She came up to us beaming. She was a year older, and her skirts were a foot longer. Her figure was, perhaps, a shade more developed, and her manner a little more assured. In other respects she was unchanged.

"What are you two old dears worrying about?" she exclaimed lightly. "You have the air of conspirators. No secrets from me, please. What is it all about?"

"We are lamenting the antiquity of your hat," Mabane answered gravely. "Arthur assures us that it is out of date. It ought to be flat and bunchy, and it isn't!"

"Geese!" she exclaimed lightly, "both of you! Arthur, I'm ashamed of you. You may know something about motors, but you are very ignorant indeed about hats. Come along, all of you, and gaze at my miniatures. I am longing to see how they look framed."

"As regards the hat——" I began.

"I will not hear anything more about it," she interrupted, laughing. "Of course, if you don't like to be seen with me—oh! Why, look! look!"

We had stopped before a case of miniatures. In the front row were two somewhat larger than the others, and Isobel's first serious attempts. Behind each was stuck a little ivory board bearing the magic word "Sold."

"Sold!" Arthur exclaimed incredulously.

"It may be a mistake," I said slowly.

Mabane and I exchanged glances. We knew very well that, though the miniatures showed promise of talent, they were amateurish and imperfect, and the reserve which we had placed upon them was quite out of all proportion to their merit. It must surely be a mistake! We followed Isobel across the room. A little elderly gentleman was sitting before a desk, engaged in the leisurely contemplation of a small open ledger. Isobel had halted in front of him. There was a delicate flush of pink on her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant.

"Are my miniatures sold, please?" she exclaimed. "My name is Miss de Sorrens. They have a small ivory board just behind them which says 'Sold.'"

The elderly gentleman looked up, and surveyed her calmly over the top of his spectacles.

"What did you say that your name was, madam, and the number of your miniatures?" he enquired.

"Miss Isobel de Sorrens," she answered breathlessly, "and my miniatures are number two hundred and seven and eight—a portrait of an elderly lady, and two hundred and eighty-nine—a child."

The little old gentleman turned over the pages of his ledger in very leisurely fashion, and consulted a recent entry.

"Your miniatures are sold, Miss de Sorrens," he said, "for the reserve price placed upon them—twenty guineas each. The money will be paid to you on the close of the Exhibition, according to our usual custom."

"Please tell me who bought them," she begged. "I want to be quite sure that there is no mistake."

"There is certainly no mistake," he answered, smiling. "The first one was bought by—let me see—a nobleman in the suite of the Archduchess of Bristlaw, the Baron von Leibingen. I believe that her Highness is proposing to visit the Exhibition this afternoon. The other purchaser paid cash, but refused his name. Ah! Excuse me!"

He rose hastily, and moved towards the door. A little group of people were entering, before whom the bystanders gave way with all that respect which the British public invariably displays for Royalty. Isobel watched them with frank and eager interest. Mabane and I moved over to her side.

"Is it true?" I asked her.

"He says so," she answered, still a little bewildered. "Arnold, can you imagine it? Forty guineas! I—I——"

There followed an amazing interlude. The little party of newcomers, before whom everyone was obsequiously giving way, came face to face with us. Mabane and I stepped back at once, but Isobel remained motionless. An extraordinary change had come over her. Her eyes seemed fastened upon the woman who was the central figure of the little procession, and the girl who walked by her side. Someone whispered to her to move back. She took no notice. She seemed as though she had not heard. Royalty raised its lorgnettes, and dropped them with a crash upon the polished wood floor. Then those who were quick to understand knew that something lay beneath this unusual awkwardness.

The manager of the Gallery, who, catalogue in hand, had been prepared personally to conduct the Royal party round, looked about him, wondering as to the cause of the contretemps. His eyes fell upon Isobel.

"Please step back," he whispered to her, angrily. "Don't you see that the Princess is here, and the Archduchess of Bristlaw? Clear the way, please!"

The manager was a small man, and Isobel's eyes travelled over his head. She did not seem to hear him speak. The Archduchess recovered herself. She took the shattered lorgnettes from the hand of her lady-in-waiting. She pointed to Isobel.

"Who is this young person?" she asked calmly. "Does she wish to speak to me?"

A wave of colour swept into Isobel's cheeks. She drew back at once.

"I beg your pardon, Madame," she said. But even when she had rejoined my side her eyes remained fixed upon the face of the Archduchess and her companion.

There was a general movement forward. One of the ladies in the suite, however, lingered behind. Our eyes met, and Lady Delahaye held out her hand.

"Your ward is growing," she murmured, "in inches, if not in manners. When are you going to engage a chaperon for her?"

"When I think it necessary, Lady Delahaye," I answered, with a bow.

"You artists have—such strange ideas," she remarked, smiling up at me. "You wish Isobel to remain a child of nature, perhaps. Yet you must admit that a few lessons in deportment would be of advantage."

"To the Archduchess, apparently," I answered. "One does not often see a great lady so embarrassed."

Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders. She dropped her voice a little.

"Are we never to meet without quarrelling, Arnold?" she whispered, looking up into my eyes. "It used not to be like this."

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "it is not my fault. We seem to have taken opposite sides in a game which I for one do not understand. Twice during the last six months you have made attempts which can scarcely be called honourable to take Isobel from us. Our rooms are continually watched. We dare not let the child go out alone. Now this woman from Madame Richard's has come to live in the same building. She, too, watches."

"It is only the beginning, Arnold," she said quietly. "I told you more than a year ago that you were interfering in graver concerns than you imagined. Why don't you be wise, and let the child go? The care of her will bring nothing but trouble upon you!"

Her words struck home more surely than she imagined, for in my heart had lain dormant for months the fear of what was to come, the shadow which was already creeping over our lives. Nevertheless, I answered her lightly.

"You know my obstinacy of old, Lady Delahaye," I said. "We are wasting words, I think."

She shrugged her shoulders and passed on. Mabane touched me on the shoulder.

"Isobel would like to go," he said. "Arthur and she are at the door already."

I turned to leave the place. We were already in the passage which led into Bond Street, when I felt myself touched upon the shoulder. A tall, fair young man, with his hair brushed back, and very blue eyes, who had been in the suite of the Archduchess, addressed me.

"Pardon me," he said, "but you are Mr. Arnold Greatson, I believe?"

I acknowledged the fact.

"The Archduchess of Bristlaw begs that you will spare her a moment. She will not detain you longer."

I turned to Mabane.

"Take Isobel home," I said. "I will follow presently."

We re-entered the Gallery. The majority of the Royal party were busy examining the miniatures. The Archduchess was talking earnestly to Lady Delahaye in a remote corner. My guide led me directly to her.

"Her Highness permits me to present you," he said to me. "This is Mr. Arnold Greatson, your Highness."

The Archduchess acknowledged my bow graciously.

"You are the Mr. Arnold Greatson who writes such charming stories," she said. "Yes, it is so, is it not?"

"Your Highness is very kind," I answered.

"I learn," she continued, "that you are also the guardian of the young lady who gave us all such a start. Pardon me, but you surely seem a little young for such a post."

"The circumstances, your Highness," I answered, "were a little exceptional."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, yes, so I have heard. Lady Delahaye has been telling me the story. I understand that you have never been able to discover the child's parentage. That is very strange!"

"There are other things in connection with my ward, your Highness," I said, "which seem to me equally inexplicable."

"Yes? I am very interested. Will you tell me what they are?"

"By all means," I answered. "I refer to the fact that though no one has come forward openly to claim the child, indirect efforts to induce her to leave us are continually being made by persons who seem to desire anonymity. Whenever she has been alone in the streets she has been accosted under various pretexts."

The Archduchess was politely surprised.

"But surely you are aware," she remarked, "of the source of some at least of these attempts?"

"Madame Richard," I said, "the principal of the convent where Isobel was educated, seems particularly anxious to have her return there."

The Archduchess nodded her head slowly.

"Well," she said, "is that so much to be wondered at? Even we who are of the world might consider—you must pardon me, Mr. Greatson, if I speak frankly—the girl's present position an undesirable one. How do you suppose, then, that the principal of a convent boarding-school, whose sister, I believe, is a nun, would be likely to regard the same thing?"

"Your Highness knows, then, of the convent?" I remarked.

The Archduchess lifted her eyebrows lightly. Her gesture seemed intended to convey to me the fact that she had not sent for me to answer my questions. I remained unabashed, however, and waited for her reply. Several curious facts were beginning to group themselves together in my mind.

"I have heard of the place," she said coldly. "I believe it to be an excellent institution. I sent for you, Mr. Greatson, not, however, to discuss such matters, but solely to ask for information as to the child's parentage. It seems that you are unable to give me this."

"Lady Delahaye knows as much—probably more—than I," I answered.

It seemed to me that the Archduchess and Lady Delahaye exchanged quick glances. I affected, however, to have noticed nothing.

"I will be quite candid with you, Mr. Greatson," the Archduchess continued. "My interest in the girl arises, of course, from the wonderful likeness to my own daughter, and to other members of my family. Your ward herself was obviously struck with it. I must confess that I, too, received something of a shock."

"I think," I answered, "that it was apparent to all of us."

The Archduchess coughed. For a Royal personage, she seemed to find some little difficulty in proceeding.

"The history of our family is naturally a matter of common knowledge," she said slowly. "Any connection with it, therefore, which this child might be able to claim would be of that order which you, as a man of the world, would doubtless understand. Nevertheless, I am sufficiently interested in her to be inclined to take any steps which might be necessary for her welfare. I propose to set some enquiries on foot. Providing that the result of them be as I suspect, I presume you would have no objection to relinquish the child to my protection?"

"Your Highness," I answered, "I could not answer such a question as that without consideration, or without consulting Isobel herself."

The Archduchess frowned upon me, and I was at once made conscious that I had fallen under her displeasure. I fancy, however, that I appeared as I felt, quite unimpressed.

"I cannot understand any hesitation whatsoever upon your part, Mr. Greatson," she said. "Under my care the child's future would be fittingly provided for. Her position with you must be, at the best, an equivocal one."

"Your Highness," I answered steadily, "my friends and I are handicapped perhaps by our sex, but we have a housekeeper who is an old family servant, and a model of respectability. In all ways and at all times we have treated Isobel as a very dear sister. The position may seem an equivocal one—to a certain order of minds. Those who know us, I may venture to say, see nothing harmful to the child in our guardianship."

The Archduchess stared at me, and I gathered that she was not used to anything save implicit obedience from those to whom she made suggestions. She stared, and then she laughed softly. There was more than a spice of malice in her mirth.

"Which of you three young men are going to fall in love with her?" she asked bluntly. "You call her a child, but she is almost a woman, and she is beautiful. She will be very beautiful."

"Your Highness," I answered coldly, "it is a matter which we have not as yet permitted ourselves to consider."

The Archduchess was displeased with me, and she took no further pains to hide her displeasure.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, with a little wave of dismissal, "for the present I have no more to say."

She turned her back upon me, and I at once left the Gallery.



CHAPTER II

I walked home with but one thought in my mind. The Archduchess had put into words—very plain, blunt words—what as yet I had scarcely dared harbour in my mind as a fugitive idea. She had done me in that respect good service. She had brought to a sudden crisis an issue which it was folly any longer to evade. I meant to speak now, and have done with it. I walked through the busy streets a dreaming man. It was for the last time. Henceforth, even the dream must pass.

I found Mabane and Arthur alone, for which I was sufficiently thankful. There was no longer any excuse for delay. Mabane had taken possession of the easy-chair, and was smoking his largest pipe. Arthur was walking restlessly up and down the room. Evidently they had been discussing between them the events of the afternoon, for there was a sudden silence when I entered, and they both waited eagerly for me to speak. I closed the door carefully behind me, and took a cigarette from the box on my desk.

"What did the Archduchess want?" Arthur asked bluntly.

"I will tell you all that she said presently," I answered. "In effect, it was the same as the others. She, too, wanted Isobel!"

"Shall we have to give her up?" Arthur demanded.

"We will discuss that another time," I said. "I am glad to find that you are both here. There is another matter, concerning which I think that we ought to come to an understanding as soon as possible. It has been in my mind for a long while."

"About Isobel?" Arthur interrupted.

"About Isobel!" I assented.

They were both attentive. Mabane's expression was purely negative. Arthur, on the other hand, was distinctly nervous. I think that from the first he had some idea what it was that I wanted to say.

"Isobel, when she came to us little more than a year ago," I continued, "was a child. We have always treated her, and I believe thought of her, as a child. It was perhaps a daring experiment to have brought her here at all, and yet I am inclined to think that, under the circumstances, it was the best thing for her, and, from another point of view, an excellent thing for us!"

"Excellent! Why, it has made all the difference in the world," Arthur declared vigorously.

"I see that you follow me," I agreed. "Her coming seems to have steadied us up all round. The changes which we were obliged to make in our manner of living have all been for the better. I am afraid that we were drifting, Allan and I, at any rate into a somewhat objectless sort of existence, and our work was beginning to show the signs of it. The coming of Isobel seems to have changed all that. You, Allan, know that you have never done better work in your life than during the last year. Your portrait of her was an inspiration. Some of those smaller studies show signs of a talent which I think has surprised everyone, except Arthur and myself, who knew what you could do when you settled down to it. I, too, have been more successful, as you know. I have done better work, and more of it. You agree with me so far, Allan?"

"There is no doubt at all about it," Mabane said slowly. "There has been a different atmosphere about the place since the child came, and we have thrived in it. We are all better, much the better, for her coming!"

"I am glad that you appreciate this, Allan," I said. "This sort of thing is rather hard to put into words, but I believe that you fellows understand exactly what I mean. We have had to amuse her, and in doing so we have developed simpler and better tastes for ourselves. We've had to give up a lot of things, and a lot of friends we've been much better without."

"It's true, every word of it, Arnold," Mabane admitted, knocking out the ashes from his pipe. "We've chucked the music-halls for the theatres, and our lazy slacking Sundays, with a night at the club afterwards, for long wholesome days in the country—very jolly days, too. We're better men in our small way for the child's coming, Arnold. You can take that for granted. Now, go on with what you have to say. I suppose this is all a prelude to something or other."

Even then I hesitated, for my task was not an easy one, and all the while Arthur, who maintained an uneasy silence, was watching me furtively. It was as though he knew from the first what it was that I was leading up to, and I seemed to be conscious already of his passionate though unspoken resistance.

"It was a child," I said at last, "whom we took into our lives. To-day she is a woman!"

Then Arthur could keep silence no longer. There was a pink flush in his cheeks, which were still as smooth as a girl's, but the passion in his tone was the passion of a man.

"You are not thinking, Arnold—you would not be so mad as to think of giving her up to any of these people?" he exclaimed. "They are her enemies, all of them. I am sure of it!"

"I am coming to that presently," I went on. "You know what happened this afternoon? You saw the likeness, the amazing likeness, between Isobel and that other girl, the daughter of the Archduchess. The Archduchess was herself very much impressed with it. Without a doubt she knows Isobel's history. She went so far as to tell me that she believed Isobel to be morganatically connected with her own family, the House of Waldenburg! She offered to take her under her own protection!"

"You did not consent!" Arthur exclaimed.

"I neither consented nor absolutely refused," I answered. "It was not a matter to be decided on the spur of the moment. But the more I think of it, the more I am puzzled. Madame Richard wants Isobel. She was not satisfied with our refusal to give her up. She sent that messenger of hers back with fresh offers, and when again we refused, the woman takes up her quarters here, always spying upon us, always accosting Isobel on any excuse. Madame Richard may be a very good woman, but I have seen and spoken with her, and I do not for one moment believe that her extraordinary persistence is for Isobel's sake alone. Then Lady Delahaye has never ceased from worrying us. She has tried threats, persuasions and entreaties. She has tried by every means in her power to induce us to give up the child to her. And now we have the Archduchess to deal with, and it seems to me that we are getting very near the heart of the matter. The Archduchess is a daughter of one of the Royal Houses of Europe, and Major Delahaye was once attache at her father's Court. Then there is Grooten, the man who shot Delahaye. His interest in her is so strong that he risks his life and commits a crime to save her from a man whom he believes to be a source of danger to her. He sends her money every quarter, which, as you know, we have never touched—it stands in her name if ever she should require it. Grooten is a man into whose charge we could not possibly give her, and yet of all these people he is the only one whom I would trust—the only one whom I feel instinctively means well by her. Madame Richard wants her, Lady Delahaye wants her, and behind them both there is the Archduchess, who also wants her. I have thought this matter over, and, so far as I am concerned, I have decided——"

"Not to give her up to any of them!" Arthur exclaimed sharply.

"To give her up to no one who is not prepared to go into court and establish a legal claim," I continued. "It is very simple, and I think very reasonable. When she leaves us, it shall be to take up an accredited and definite station in life. The time may come at any moment. We must always be prepared for it. But until it does, we will not even parley any longer with these people who come to us and hint at mysterious things."

Arthur wrung my hand. He was apparently much relieved, and he did not know what was coming.

"Arnold, you are a brick!" he exclaimed. "That's sound common-sense—every word you've uttered. Let them prove their claim to her."

"I agree with every word you have spoken," Allan said quietly, in response to a look from me. "The child is at least safe with us, and she is not wasting her time. She has talent, and she has application. I, for my part, shall be very sorry indeed when the time comes, as I suppose it will come some day, for her to go."

Then I mustered up my courage, and said that which I had known from the first would be difficult.

"There is one thing more," I said, "and I want to say it to you now. It may seem to you both unnecessary. Perhaps it is. Still, it is better that we should come to an understanding about it. A year has passed since Isobel, the child, came to us. To-day she is a woman. If we still keep her with us there must be a bond, a covenant between us, and our honour must stand pledged to keep it. I think that you both know very well what I mean. I hope that you will both agree with me."

I paused for a moment, but I received no encouragement from either of them. They were both silent, and Arthur's eyes were questioning mine fiercely. I addressed myself more particularly to him.

"Allan and I are elderly persons compared with you, Arthur," I said, "but we might still be described at a stretch as young men. If we decide to remain Isobel's guardians, there is a further and a deeper duty devolving upon us than the obvious one of treating her with all respect. It is possible that she might come to feel a preference for one of us—a sense of gratitude, the natural sentiment of her coming womanhood, even the fact of continual propinquity might encourage it. Isobel is charming; she will be beautiful. The position, if any one of us relaxed in the slightest degree, might become critical. You must understand what I mean, I am sure, even if I am not expressing it very clearly. Isobel sees few, if any, other men. It is possible, it is almost certain, that she belongs to a class whose position and ideas are far removed from ours. There must be no sentimental relations established between her and any one of us. We are her brothers, she is our sister. So it must remain while she is under our charge. This must be agreed upon between us."

There was a dead, almost an ominous, silence. Mabane was standing with his arms folded, and his face turned a little away. I appealed first to him.

"Allan," I said, "you agree with me?"

"Absolutely!" he answered. "I agree with every word you have said."

I turned to Arthur.

"And you, Arthur?"

He did not at once reply. The colour was coming and going in his cheeks, and he was playing nervously with his watchchain. When he raised his eyes to mine, the slight belligerency of his earlier manner was more clearly defined.

"I think," he said, "that there is another side to the question. Isobel is the sort of girl whom fellows are bound to notice. Besides, being so jolly good-looking, she is such ripping good form, and that sort of thing. What you are proposing, Arnold, is simply that we should stand on one side altogether and leave Isobel for any other fellow who happens to come along."

"It scarcely amounts to that," I answered. "No other man is likely to see much of her while she is under our care. Afterwards, of course, the conditions are different. Our covenant, the covenant to which I am asking you to agree, comes to an end when she leaves us."

"You see," Arthur protested, "it is a little different, isn't it, for you fellows? Not that I'm comparing myself with you, of course, in any sort of way. You're both heaps cleverer than I am, and all that, but Isobel and I are nearer the same age, and we've been about together such a lot, motoring and all that, and had such good times. You understand what I mean, don't you? Of course, that sort of thing, that sort of thing—you know, brings a fellow and a girl together so, liking the same things, and being about the same age. It isn't quite like that with you two, is it now?"

Again there was silence. Mabane had withdrawn his pipe from his mouth, and was looking steadfastly into the bowl. As for me, I found it wholly impossible to analyse my sensations. All the time Arthur was looking eagerly from one to the other of us. I recovered myself with an effort, and answered him.

"We will not dispute the position with you, Arthur," I said quietly. "We will admit all that you say. We will admit, therefore, that by all natural laws you are the one on whom the burden of keeping this covenant must fall most heavily. That fact may make it a little harder for you than for us, but it does not alter the position in any way. There must be no attempt at sentiment between Isobel and any one of us. If by any chance the opening should come from her, it must be ignored and discouraged."

"I can't for the life of me see why," Arthur declared. "And I—well, it's no use beating about the bush. Isobel is the only girl in the world I could ever look at. I am fond of her! I can't help it! I love her! There!"

Mabane mercifully took up the burden of speech.

"Have you said anything to her?" he asked.

"No."

"Not a word?"

"Not a word," Arthur declared. "She is too young. She has not begun to think about those things yet. But she is wonderful, and I love her. It is all very well for you two," he continued earnestly. "You are both over thirty, and confirmed bachelors. I'm only just twenty-four, and I've never cared for a girl a snap of the fingers yet. I don't care any more about knocking about. Of course, I've done a bit at it like everyone else, but Isobel has knocked all that out of me. I should be quite content to settle down to-morrow!"

I tried to put myself in his place, to enter for a moment into his point of view. Yet I am afraid that I must have seemed very unsympathetic.

"Arthur," I said, "I am sorry for you, but it won't do. I fancy that before long she will be removed from us altogether. For her sake, and the sake of our own honour, no word of what you have told us must pass your lips. Unless you can promise that——"

I hesitated. Arthur had risen to his feet. The colour had mounted to his temples, his eyes were bright with anger.

"I will not promise it," he declared. "I love Isobel, and very soon I mean to tell her so."

"Then it must be under another roof," I answered. "If you will not promise to keep absolutely silent until we at least know exactly what her parentage is, you must leave us."

Arthur took up his hat.

"Very well," he said shortly. "I will send for my things to-morrow."

He left the room without another word to either of us.



CHAPTER III

"In diplomacy," the Baron remarked blandly, "as also, I believe, in affairs of commerce, the dinner-table is frequently chosen as a fitting place for the commencement of delicate negotiations. For a bargain—no! But when three men—take ourselves, for instance—have a matter of some importance to discuss, I can conceive no better opportunity for the preliminary—skirmishing, shall I say?—than the present."

I raised my glass, and looked thoughtfully at the pale amber wine bubbling up from the stem.

"From a certain point of view," I answered, "I entirely agree with you. Yet you must remember that the host has always the advantage."

"In the present case," the Baron said with a smile, "that amounts to nothing, for you practically gave me my answer before we sat down to dinner. If I am able to induce you to change your mind—well, so much the better. If not—well, I can have nothing to complain of."

"I am glad," I answered, "that you appreciate our position. With regard to the present custody of the child, which I take it is what you want to discuss with us, our minds are practically made up. My friend and I have both agreed that we will continue the charge of her until she is claimed by someone who is in a position to do so openly—someone, in short, who has a legal right."

The Baron nodded gravely.

"An excellent decision," he said. "No one could possibly quarrel with it. Yet it is a privilege to be able to tell you some facts which may perhaps affect your point of view. I can explain to you why this open claim is not made."

"We are here," I answered, "to listen to whatever you may have to say."

We—Allan and I—were dining with the Baron at Claridge's. An appointment, which he had begged us to make, had been changed into a dinner invitation at his earnest request. There was a likelihood, he told us, of his being summoned abroad at any moment, and he was particularly anxious not to leave the hotel pending the arrival of a cablegram. So far his demeanour had been courtesy and consideration itself, but under the man's geniality and almost excessive bonhomie both Allan and myself were conscious of a certain nervous impatience, only partially concealed. Whatever proposal he might have to make to us, our acceptance of it was without doubt a matter of great importance to him. The more we realized this, the more we wondered.

"I only wish," he said with emphasis, "that it was within my power to lay the cards upon the table before you, to tell you the whole truth. I do not think then that you would hesitate for a single second. But that I cannot do. The honour of a great house, Mr. Greatson, is involved in this matter, into which you have been so strangely drawn. I must leave blanks in my story which you must fill in for yourselves, you and Mr. Mabane. There are things which I may not—dare not—tell you. If I could, you would wonder no longer that those who desire to take over the charge of the child wish to do so without publicity, and without any appeal to the courts."

"The Archduchess," I remarked, "gave me some hint as to the nature of these difficulties."

The Baron emptied his glass and called for another bottle of wine. Then he looked carefully around him, a quite unnecessary precaution, for our table was in a remote corner of the room, and there were very few dining.

"It is no longer," he said, "a matter of surmise with us as to who the child you call Isobel de Sorrens really is. She is of the House of Waldenburg. She carries her descent written in her face, a hall-mark no one could deny. Upon the Archduchess and others of her great family must rest always the shadow of a grave stigma so long as the child remains in the hands of strangers, an alien from her own country. The Archduchess wishes at once, and quietly, to assume the charge of her. She is conscious of your services; she feels that you have probably saved the child from a fate which it is not easy to contemplate calmly. She authorizes me, therefore, to treat with you in the most generous fashion."

"That is a phrase," I remarked, "which I do not altogether understand."

"Later," the Baron said, with a meaning look, "I will make myself clear. In the meantime, let me recommend this souffle. Mr. Mabane, you are drinking nothing. Would you prefer your wine a shade colder?"

"Not for me," Allan declared. "I prefer champagne at its natural temperature; the wine is far too good to have its flavour frozen out of it. Apropos of what you were saying, Baron, there is one question which I should like to ask you. Why was Major Delahaye sent to St. Argueil for Isobel, and what was he supposed to do with her?"

I do not think that the Baron liked the question. He hesitated for several moments before he answered it.

"Major Delahaye was not sent," he said. "He went on his own account. He was the only person who knew the child's whereabouts."

"And what do you suppose his object was in bringing her away from the convent?" Allan persisted.

"I do not know," the Baron answered. "All I can say is that it pleases me vastly more to find the child in your keeping than in his."

"Was the man who shot him," I asked, "concerned in the child's earlier history?"

"I cannot place him at all," the Baron answered. "I should imagine that his quarrel with Major Delahaye was a personal one, and had no bearing upon the child. Few men had more enemies than Delahaye. One does not wish to speak ill of the dead, but he was a bully and a brute all his days."

A servant in plain black livery brought a sealed note to our host, and stood respectfully by his side while he read it. It obviously consisted of but a few words, yet the Baron continued to hold it in front of him for nearly a minute. Finally, he crushed it in his hand, and dismissed the servant.

"There is no answer," he said. "I shall wait upon her Highness in an hour."

Our dinner was over. Both Mabane and myself had declined dessert. Our host rose.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have ordered coffee in the smoking-room. The head-waiter has told me of some wonderful brandy, and I have some cigars which I am anxious for you to try. Will you come this way?"

We were the only occupants of the smoking-room. The Baron appropriated a corner, and left us to fetch the cigars. Mabane lit a cigarette and leaned back in an easy-chair.

"It seems to me, Arnold," he said, "that you are like the man who found what he went out for to see. You wanted tragedy—and you came very near it. I do not quite see what the end of all these things will be. Our host——"

"There is a disappointment in store for him, I fancy," I interrupted. "He is a very faithful servant of the Archduchess, and he has worked hard for her. From his point of view his arguments are reasonable enough. All that he says is plausible—and yet—one feels that there is something behind it all. Allan, I don't trust one of these people! I can't!"

"Nor I," Allan answered softly, for the Baron had already entered the room.

He brought with him some wonderful cabanas, and immediately afterwards coffee and liqueurs were served. The moment the waiter had disappeared, he threw off all reserve.

"Come," he said, "I am no longer your host. We meet here on equal terms. I have an offer to make to you which I think you will find astonishing. The fact is, her Highness is anxious to run no risk of any resurrection of a certain scandal. She has commissioned me to beg your acceptance—you and your friend—of these," he laid down two separate pieces of paper upon the table. "She wishes to relieve you as soon as possible to-night, if you can arrange it—of the care of a certain young lady. There need be no hesitation about your acceptance. Royalty, as you know, has special privileges so far as regards bounty, and her Highness appreciates most heartily the care and kindness which the child has received at your hands."

I stared at my piece of paper. It was a cheque for five thousand pounds. I looked at Mabane's. It was a cheque for a like amount. Then I looked up at the Baron. The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead. He was watching us as a man might watch one in whose hands lay the power of life or death. I resisted my first impulse, which was simply to tear the cheque in two. I simply pushed it back across the table.

"Baron," I said, "if this is meant as a recompense for any kindness which we have shown to a friendless child, it is unnecessary and unacceptable. If it is meant," I added more slowly, "for a bribe, it is not enough."

"Call it what you will," he answered quickly. "Name your own price for the child—brought here—to-night."

"No price that you or your mistress could pay, Baron," I answered quietly. "I told you my ultimatum two hours ago. The child remains with us until she is claimed by one who has a legal right, and is not afraid to invoke the law."

"But I have explained the position," the Baron protested. "You must understand why we cannot bring such a matter as this into the courts."

"Your story is ingenious, and, pardon me, it may be true," I answered. "We require proof!"

The Baron's face was not pleasant to look upon.

"You doubt my word, sir—my word, and the word of the Archduchess?"

I rose to my feet. Mabane followed my example. I felt that a storm was pending.

"Baron," I said, "there are some causes which make strange demands upon the best of us. A man may lie to save a woman's honour, or, if he be a politician, for the good of his country. I cannot discuss this matter any further with you. My sole regret is that we ever discussed it at all. My friend and I must wish you good-night."

"By heavens, you shall not go!" the Baron exclaimed. "What right have you to the child? None at all! Her Highness wishes to be generous. It pleases you to flout her generosity. Mr. Arnold Greatson, you are a fool! Don't you see that you are a pigmy, who has stolen through the back door into the world where great things are dealt with? You have no place there. You cannot keep the child away from us. You have no influence, no money. You are nobody. If you think——"

Mabane interposed.

"Baron," he said, "if you were not still, in a sense, our host, I should knock you down. As it is, permit me to tell you that you are talking nonsense."

The Baron drew a sharp, quick breath.

"You are right," he said shortly. "I am a fool to discuss this with you at all. It is not worth while. The Archduchess, out of kindness, would have treated you as friends. You decline! Good! You shall be treated—as you deserve."

The Baron threw open the door and bowed us out. The commissionaire helped us on with our coats and summoned a hansom. We were just driving off, when a man in a long travelling coat, who had been standing outside the swing-door of the hotel, calmly swung himself up into the cab and motioned to us to make room. I stared at him in blank amazement.

"Hullo!" I exclaimed. "What——"

"It is I, my friend," Mr. Grooten answered calmly. "Tell the man to drive to your rooms."



CHAPTER IV

"I am staying at Claridge's, or rather I was," Mr. Grooten remarked, as we turned into Brook Street. "I saw you with Leibingen, and I have been waiting for you. We will talk, I think, at your rooms."

Whereupon he lit a fresh cigarette, and did not speak a word until we had reached our destination. Isobel had gone to bed, and our sitting-room was empty. I turned up the lamp, and pushed a chair towards him. In various small ways he seemed to have succeeded in effecting a wonderful change in his appearance. His hair was differently arranged, and much greyer. His face was pale and drawn as though with illness. But for his voice and his broad, humorous mouth I doubt whether I should immediately have recognized him.

"I perceive," he said, "that I am not forgotten. It is very flattering! My friends abroad tell me that I have altered a good deal during the last twelve months."

"You have altered, without a doubt," I admitted. "But the circumstances connected with our first meeting were scarcely such as tend towards forgetfulness. You remember my friend, Mr. Allan Mabane?"

"Perfectly," he assented, with a courteous little wave of the hand. "I am very glad to have come across you both again so opportunely. I only arrived in England a few days ago, but I did not hope to have this pleasure until the morning at the earliest. You expected to have heard from me, perhaps, before."

"I don't know about that," I answered, "but I can assure you that we are both very glad to see you, for more reasons than one. There are a good many things which we are anxious to discuss with you."

"The pleasure, then, is mutual," Mr. Grooten remarked affably. "Isobel is, I trust, well?"

"She is quite well," I answered.

"You are helping her to spend her time profitably, I am glad to find," he continued. "I saw two miniatures of hers yesterday at the Mordaunt Rooms."

"Isobel has gifts," I said. "We are doing our best to assist her in their development."

Mr. Grooten raised his eyes to mine. He looked at me steadily.

"Why have you refused to use the money which I placed to your credit at the National Bank for her?" he asked.

"Because," I answered, "we are not aware what right you have to provide for her."

Mr. Grooten smiled upon us—much as a sphynx might have smiled. It had the effect of making us both feel very young.

"My claim," he murmured, "must surely be as good as yours."

"Perhaps," I admitted. "At any rate, the money remains there in her name. She may find herself in greater need of it later on in life."

Mr. Grooten seemed to find some amusement in the idea.

"No," he said, "I do not think that that is likely. You could safely have used the money, but as you have not—well, it is of small consequence. I presume that attempts have been made to withdraw the child from your care?"

"Several," I told him. "Madame Richard and Lady Delahaye were equally importunate."

Grooten nodded.

"You have shown," he said, "an admirable discretion in refusing to give her up to either of them."

"And to-day," I continued, "a third claimant to the care of her has intervened. The Archduchess of Bristlaw herself has offered to relieve us of our guardianship."

Mr. Grooten dropped the cigarette which he had only just lit, and seemed for the moment unconscious of the fact. He made no effort to pick it up. He quivered as though someone had struck him a blow. For a man whose impassivity was almost a part of himself he was evidently deeply agitated.

"The Archduchess—has seen Isobel!" he muttered.

"They met by chance at the Mordaunt Rooms a few afternoons ago," I told him. "The Archduchess was accompanied by a girl of about Isobel's age. We came upon them suddenly, and the likeness was so marvellous that we were all startled. There was something in the nature of a scene. We left the Gallery at once, but the Archduchess sent one of her suite for me. I had some conversation with her concerning Isobel."

"Can you repeat it?" Grooten asked.

"In substance—yes," I told him. "The Archduchess plainly hinted that she believed Isobel to be connected morganatically with her family. She wished to take her under her own charge and provide for her."

"And you?"

"I thought it best to take some time for reflection. I had some idea of looking up the history of the Archduchess's family."

"You made no promise?"

"Certainly not. To tell you the truth, I was influenced by the presence of Lady Delahaye amongst the royal party. I have no faith in Lady Delahaye's good intentions with regard to Isobel."

Mr. Grooten flashed a quick glance upon me.

"Yet," he said softly, "report says that you and Lady Delahaye have been very good friends."

"That," I answered, "is beside the mark. I knew her before her marriage, but I have seen very little of her since. As a matter of fact, our relations at the present time are scarcely amicable. We have had a difference of opinion concerning our guardianship of Isobel. Lady Delahaye does not approve of her presence here with us."

Mr. Grooten smiled.

"That," he said, "is probable. May I proceed to ask a somewhat impertinent question? You were the guests to-night, I believe, of the Baron von Leibingen, who is, I understand, a persona grata with the Archduchess. I presume that your meeting in some way concerned Isobel?"

"Isobel was the sole cause of it," I answered. "The Archduchess is a woman who perseveres. She declined to consider that my reply to her first tentative offer was in any way final. She passed the matter on to the Baron, and certainly until he lost his temper towards the end of our interview, he was a very efficient ambassador. He proved to us quite clearly that it was our duty to give Isobel up to those who had a better right to assume the charge of her, and he wound up by handing us cheques for—I think it was five thousand pounds each, wasn't it, Allan?"

Mr. Grooten leaned back in his chair and laughed silently, yet with obvious enjoyment.

"That poor von Leibingen," he murmured, "how he blunders his way through life! Yet, my friend, I am afraid that this charge which I so thoughtlessly laid upon you is proving very troublesome. And you perceive that I do not even offer you a cheque."

Allan suddenly rose up and knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fire.

"You do not offer us a cheque, Mr. Grooten," he said quietly, "because you have perceptions. But there is another way in which you can recompense us for the trifling inconveniences to which we have been put. You can make our task easier—and more dignified; you can answer a question which I think I may say that we have an absolute right to ask you."

Mr. Grooten inclined his head slightly. He made no remark. Allan turned to me.

"Arnold," he said, "this is more your affair than mine, for it is you who have borne the brunt of it from the first. I do not wish to interfere in it unduly. But from every point of view, I think that the time has come when all this mystery concerning Isobel's antecedents should be, so far as we are concerned at any rate, cleared up. Our hands would be immensely strengthened by the knowledge of the truth. Your friend here, Mr. Grooten, can tell us if he will. Ask him to do so. I will go further. I will even say that we have a right to insist upon it."

Mr. Grooten sat immovable. One could scarcely gather from his face that he had heard a word of Allan's speech.

"You are quite right, Allan," I answered. "Mr. Grooten," I continued, turning towards him, "you are the best judge as to whether your presence in this country is altogether wise, but I can assure you that for the last six months we have looked for you every day, and for this same reason. We want that question answered. The time has come when, in common justice to us and the child, the whole thing should be cleared up. Whatever knowledge rests with you is safe also with us. I think that we have proved that. I think that we have earned our right to your complete confidence. Mabane and I you can consider as one in this matter. You can speak before him as though we were alone. Now tell us the whole truth."

"I cannot," Mr. Grooten answered simply.

There was a certain crisp definiteness about those two words which carried conviction with them. Mabane and I were a little staggered. Our position was such a strong one, our request so reasonable, that I think that we had never realized the possibility of a refusal.

"May I ask you this?" Mabane said. "Do you expect that we shall continue our—I suppose we may call it guardianship—of Isobel in the face of your present attitude?"

"I hope so, for the present," our visitor admitted softly.

"Notwithstanding," Mabane continued, "our absolute ignorance of everything connected with her, our lack of any sort of claim or title to the charge of her, and the increasing number of people who still persist in trying to take her from us?"

Mr. Grooten shrugged his shoulders.

"You omit to mention the factors in the situation which may be said to be on your side," he murmured.

"I should be interested to know what those are," I remarked.

"Certainly. The first and most powerful of all is, of course, possession."

Mabane nodded.

"And after that?"

"The fact that not one of the three people who have appealed to you for the charge of the child is in a position to use the only real force which exists in this land. I mean the law," Grooten continued.

This kept us silent again for a moment. Mabane, I could see, was getting a little ruffled.

"You pelt us with enigmas, sir," he said. "You answer our questions only by propounding fresh conundrums. One thing, at least, you may feel disposed to tell us. What is your own relationship to Isobel?"

"None," Mr. Grooten answered.

"Your interest, then?"

Mr. Grooten remained silent. He sat in his chair, very still and very quiet. Yet in his eyes there shone for a moment something which seemed to bring into the little room the shadow of great things. Mabane and I both felt it. We had the sense of having been left behind. The little man in his chair seemed to have been lifted out of our reach into the mightier world of passion and suffering and self-conquest.

"I loved her mother," he said softly. "I was the man whom her mother loved."

There was a silence between us then. We had no more to say. We were at that moment his bounden slaves. But by some evil chance, after a lengthened pause, he continued—

"I, alas, could do little for the child. Yet when I heard that harm was threatened to her through that scamp Delahaye, I crossed the ocean at an hour's notice. I saved her from him. He deserved his fate, but I am no murderer by profession, and the shock unnerved me for a time. Then——"

"Hush!" Mabane cried.

I sprang to the door. It had been thrust about a foot open. From outside came the sound of angry voices, followed by a moment's silence. Then a quick, shrill cry of triumph.

"Let me in. Oh, you shall not stop me now. I am going to see the man who boasts of being my husband's murderer!"

It was the voice of Lady Delahaye. She was already upon the threshold. I sprang to the table and saw her coming. Already she was behind the screen, stealing into the room, her head thrust forward, her lips parted, a peculiar glitter in her eyes. For a moment I stood rigid. The sight of her fascinated me—there was something so wholly animal-like in the stealthy triumph of her tiptoe approach. I recovered myself just in time. One more step, a turn of her head, and she would have seen Grooten. My finger pressed down the catch of the lamp, and a sudden darkness filled the room.

She stopped short. Her fierce little cry of anger told me exactly where she was. I stepped forward and caught her wrists firmly. Then I faced where I knew Grooten was still sitting. I could see the red end of his cigarette still in his mouth.

"Leave the room at once," I said. "You can push the screen on one side, and you are within a yard of the door then. Please do exactly as I say, and don't reply."

"Let go my hands, sir! Arnold, how dare you! Let me go, or I'll scream the place down. Mr. Mabane, you will not permit this?" she cried, in a fury.

Mabane closed the door through which Grooten had already issued, and I heard the key turn in the lock. I released Lady Delahaye's hands, and she sprang away from me. As the flame from the lamp which Allan had just rekindled gained in power we saw her, still shaking the handle, but with her back now against the wall turned to face us. She was calmer than I had expected, but it was a terrible look which she flashed upon us.



"In how many minutes," she asked, "may I be released?"

Allan whispered in my ear.

"In five minutes, Lady Delahaye," I said. "I regret very much the necessity for keeping you at all. May I offer you a chair?"

"You may offer me nothing, sir, except your silence," she answered swiftly.

She meant it too. I know the signs of anger in a woman's face as well as most men, and they were written there plainly enough. So for a most uncomfortable period of time we waited there until Allan, after a glance at his watch, went and opened the door. She passed out without remark, but from the threshold outside she turned and looked at me.

"I warned you once before, Arnold Greatson," she said, "that you were meddling with greater concerns than you knew of, and that harm would come to you for it. Now you have chosen to shield a murderer, and to use your strength upon a woman. These things will not go unforgotten!"

Mabane closed the door, and threw himself into an easy chair.

"For two easy-going sort of fellows, Arnold," he said to me, "we seem to be making a lot of enemies. Don't you think it would be a good idea if we drew stumps for a bit?"

"Meaning?" I asked.

"Roseleys!"

"We'll go to-morrow," I declared.



CHAPTER V

"I have never seen anything like this," Isobel said softly. I looked up from the writing-pad on my knee, and she met my glance with a smile of contrition.

"Ah," she said. "I forgot that I must not talk. Indeed, I did not mean to, but—look!"

I followed her eyes.

"Well," I said, "tell me what you see."

"There are so many beautiful things," she murmured. "Do you see how thick and green the grass is in the meadows there? How the quaker grasses glimmer?—you call them so, do you not?—and how those yellow cowslips shine like gold? What a world of colour it all seems. London is so grey and cold, and here—look at the sea, and the sky, with all those dear little fleecy white clouds, and the pink and white of all those wild roses wound in and out of the hedges. Oh, Arnold, it is all beautiful!"

"Even without a motor-car!" I remarked.

She looked at me a little resentfully.

"Motoring is very delightful," she said, "although you do not like it. Of course, it would be nice if Arthur were here!"

She looked away from me seawards, and I found myself studying her expression with an interest which had something more in it than mere curiosity. At odd times lately I had fancied that I could see it coming. To-day, for the first time, I was sure. The smooth transparency of childhood, the unrestrained but almost animal play of features and eyes, reproducing with photographic accuracy every small emotion and joy—these things were passing away. Even before her time the child was seeking knowledge. As she sat there, with her steadfast eyes fixed upon the smooth blue line where sea and sky met, who could tell what thoughts were passing in her mind? Not I, not Mabane, nor any of us into whose care she had come. Only I knew that she saw new things, that the rush of a more complex and stronger life was already troubling her, the sweet pangs of its birth were already tugging at her heartstrings. My pencil rested idly in my fingers, my eyes, like hers, sought that distant line, beyond which lies ever the world of one's own creation. What did she see there, I wondered? Never again should I be able to ask with the full certainty of knowing all that was in her mind. The time had come for delicate reserves, the time when the child of yesterday, with the first faint notes of a new and wonderful song stealing into her heart, must fence her new modesty around with many sweet elusions and barriers, fairy creations to be swept aside later on in one glad moment—by the one chosen person. There was a coldness in my heart when I realized that the time had come even for the child who had tripped so lightly into our lives so short a time ago, to pass away from us into that other and more complex world. It was the decree of sex, nature's immutable law, sundering playfellows, severing friendships, driving its unwilling victims into opposite corners of the world, with all the pitilessness of natural law. Nevertheless, the thought of these things as I looked at Isobel made me sad. She was young indeed for these days to come, for the shadows to steal into her eyes, and the song of trouble to grow in her heart.

"Tell me," I asked softly, "what you see beyond that blue line."

"I can tell you more easily," she said, glancing down with a faint smile at my empty pages, "what I see by my side—a very lazy man. And," she continued, crumpling a little ball of heather in her fingers and throwing it with unerring aim at Allan, "another one over there!"

"My picture," Allan protested, "is finished."

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, preparing to rise, but he waved her back.

"In my mind," he added. "Don't misunderstand me. The casual and ignorant observer glancing just now at my canvas might come to the same conclusion as you—a conclusion, by-the-bye, entirely erroneous. I will admit that my canvas is unspoilt. Nevertheless, my picture is painted."

She looked across at him reproachfully.

"Allan, how dare you!" she exclaimed. "Only Arnold has the right to be subtle. I have always regarded you as a straightforward and honest person. Don't disappoint me."

"St. Andrew forbid it!" Allan declared. "My meaning is painfully simple. I build up my picture first in my mind. Its transmission to canvas is purely mechanical. Here goes!"

He took up his palette, and in a few moments was hard at work. Isobel pointed downwards to my writing-pad.

"Can you too match Allan's excuse?" she asked. "Is your story already written?"

I shook my head.

"I have been watching you," I answered. "Besides, for a perfectly lazy person, are you not rather a hard task-mistress? Consider that this is our first day of summer—the first time we have seen the sun make diamonds on the sea, the first west wind which has come to us with the scent of cowslips and wild roses. I claim the right to be lazy if I want to be."

She smiled.

"The poet," she murmured, "finds these things inspiring."

"The poet," I answered, "is an ordinary creature. Nowadays he eats mutton-chops, plays golf, and has a banking account. The real man of feeling, Isobel, is the man who knows how to be idle. Believe me, there is a certain vulgarity in seeking to make a stock-in-trade of these delicious moments."

"That is not fair," she protested. "How should we all live if none of you did any work?"

"For your age, Isobel," I declared seriously, "you are very nearly a practical person. You make me more than ever anxious for an answer to my last question. What were you thinking of just now?"

Her eyes seemed to drift away from mine. A touch of her new seriousness returned. She pointed to that thin blue line.

"Beyond there," she said, "is to-morrow, and all the to-morrows to come. One sees a very little way."

"Our limitations," I answered, "are life's lesson to us. If to-morrow is hidden, so much the more reason that we should live to-day."

"Without thought for the morrow?"

"Without care for it," I answered. "Are we not Bohemians, and is it not our text?"

She shook her head.

"It is not yours," she answered slowly. "I am sure of that."

I looked at her quickly.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say," she answered gravely. "Men and women to whom the present is sufficient surely cannot achieve very much in life. All the time they must concentrate powers which need expansion. I think that it must be those who try to climb the walls, those even who tear their fingers and their hearts in the great struggle for freedom, who can make themselves capable of great things, even if escape is impossible. But I do not think that escape is so impossible after all, is it? There have been men, and women too, who have lived in all times, to whom there have been no to-morrows or any yesterdays. Only it seems rather hard that life for those who seek it must always be a battle!"

I did not answer her for several minutes. It was true, then, that the old days had passed away. Isobel, the child whom we had known and loved so well, had disappeared. It was Isobel the incomprehensible who was taking her place. What might the change not mean for us?...

Later we walked back over an open heath yellow with gorse, and faintly pink with the promise of the heather to come. Isobel carried her hat in her hand. She walked with her head thrown back, and a smile playing every now and then upon her lips. She was so completely absorbed that I found myself every now and then watching her, half expecting, I believe, to find some physical change to accord with that other more mysterious evolution. She walked with all the grace of long limbs and unfettered clothing. Her figure, though perfectly graceful, and with that same peculiar distinction which had first attracted me, was as yet wholly immature. But in the face itself there were signs of a coming change. Wherein it might lie I could not tell, but it was there, an intangible and wholly elusive thing. I think that a certain fear of it and what it might mean oppressed me with the sense of coming trouble. I was more fully conscious then than ever before of the moral responsibility of our peculiar charge.

We crossed a straight dusty road, cleaving the rolling moor like a belt of ribbon. Isobel looked thoughtfully along it.

"I wonder," she said, "when Arthur will come down!"

The folly of a man is a thing sometimes outside his own power of control. A second before I had been wondering of whom and what she had been thinking.

"Not just yet, I'm afraid," Allan answered, stopping to light his pipe. "It is not easy for him to get backwards and forwards, and I believe that he is by way of being rather busy just now."

"What a nuisance!" Isobel declared, looking behind her regretfully. "The roads about here seem so good."

"The roads are good, but the heath is better," Allan answered. "I will race you for half a pound of chocolates to that clump of pines!"

"You are such a slow starter," she laughed, bounding away before he had time to drop his easel. "Make it a pound!"

I picked up Allan's easel and strolled away after them. Was it the motoring, I wondered, which had prompted her half-wistful question, or had I been wise too late? Arthur had been very confident. So much that he had said had carried with it a certain ring of truth. Youth and the temperament of youth were surely irresistible. Like calls to like across the garden of spring flowers with a cry which no interloper can still, no wanderer of later years can stifle. Somehow it seemed to me just then that the sun had ceased to shine, and a touch of winter after all was lingering in the western breeze....

They disappeared round the pine plantation, Isobel leading by a few yards, her skirts blowing in the wind, running still with superb and untired grace. I climbed a bank to gain a better view of the finish, and became suddenly aware that I was not the only interested spectator of their struggle. About a hundred yards to my left a man was standing on the top of the same bank, a pair of field-glasses glued to his eyes, watching intently the spot where they might be expected to reappear. The sight of him took me by surprise. A few moments ago I could have sworn that there was not a human being within a mile of us. There was only one explanation of his appearance. He must have been concealed in the dry mossy ditch at the foot of the bank. It was possible, of course, that he might have been like us, a casual way-farer, and yet the suddenness of his appearance, the intentness of his watch, both had their effect upon me. I moved a few yards towards him, with what object I perhaps scarcely knew. A dry twig snapped beneath my feet. He became suddenly aware of my approach. Then, indeed, my suspicions took definite shape, for without a moment's hesitation the man turned and strode away in the opposite direction.

I shouted to him. He took no notice. I shouted again, and he only increased his pace. I watched him disappear, and I no longer had any doubts at all. He was not in the least like a tramp, and his flight could bear but one interpretation. Isobel was not safe even here. We had been followed from London—we were being watched every hour. For the first time I began seriously to doubt what the end of these things might be.