"Then—then where—how did you come here?"—in some astonishment.

"I came on the Sphinx. I am at present living on board, and at the moment she is anchored in Silverquay bay. Any other questions?"

Ann flushed hotly.

"I beg your pardon," she said with downcast eyes. "I didn't mean to be inquisitive, only naturally I—I rather wondered where you had sprung from. You did arrive somewhat suddenly, you know."

"I did," he acquiesced. "I was on my way to the south, of France and your letter was forwarded on to me at Southampton, where I'd put in en route. So we steamed for Silverquay at once. Now, perhaps, you'll gratify my curiosity as to what is the important matter you want to see me about. I can only think of one matter of any real importance," he added daringly, his blue eyes raking her face with the audacious, challenging glance which was so characteristic of the man.

Reluctantly Ann desisted from fidgeting with the bowl of snowdrops, and Brett nodded approval.

"Yes, I'm sure you've done your level best for them" he observed ironically.

She sat down, clasping her hands tightly together in her lap, while Brett remained standing on the hearthrug, looking down at her with quizzical amusement.

"I—I wanted to ask you—" she began, then halted abruptly and made a fresh start. "I wrote to you because—because—" Once again she came to a dead stop.

"Well?" he queried. "I'm afraid I haven't grasped it yet."

Ann pulled herself together and made another effort.

"It's about Tony," she said bluntly.

Brett's eyes narrowed, but he made no comment. He waited quietly for her to continue.

"He's told me—I've found out—that he owes you a large sum of money."

He nodded.

"He owes me money, certainly. Whether you'd define it as a large or small sum would be a matter of relative proportion, I should imagine."

"That's it!" exclaimed Ann eagerly. "That's just it. To him, twelve hundred is an enormous sum—a small fortune! To you—it isn't very much to you, Brett, is it?"

"I don't quite understand," he replied cautiously.

"You hold some bills of his—notes of hand, don't you call them?" she pursued. "And they're due to be paid now, aren't they?"

"That is so. Well, what then?"

"Why, it wouldn't make much difference to you—would it, Brett?"—appealingly—"if he didn't pay just yet—if you waited a little longer?"

"I'm afraid I don't see with what object," he returned coldly.

Ann caught her lip between her teeth. Oh, how difficult men were when it came to any question of money! How hard! Hardening all at once into cold and implacable strangers.

"Why—why—" she said entreatingly. "Tony hasn't got the money to pay you with just now, and if you'll only wait a little—give him a little time to pay—Oh, Brett, won't you do it?"

"Wait for my money, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Do you think"—sardonically—"that I'm any more likely to get it at the end of six months than I am at present? If Tony hasn't got twelve hundred now—is he proposing to earn it in the next six months?"

The bitter, gibing note in his voice roused her anger.

"You'd no business to lend it him!" she exclaimed hotly. "He's only young, and you were simply helping him, encouraging him to gamble, when you know as well as I do that gambling is absolutely in his blood. You'd no right to lend it him!"

"I like that"—coolly. "Brabazon plays the fool—or knave, rather"—with a sudden harshness in his voice—"borrowing money which he knows he can't repay, apparently—and it's my fault! Not having enough sins of my own, I suppose you think you can saddle me with Tony's, too. Many thanks." He bowed mockingly.

"You're the older man," persisted Ann. "You ought not to have made it possible—easy for him to play beyond his means. Brett, please—will you give him time to pay? As"—with an effort she swallowed her pride—"as an act of personal friendship to me?"

"You still haven't answered my question. Supposing I agree, supposing I do give him another six months, how is he going to get the money by then—unless that old curmudgeon of an uncle of his shells out for him?" Ann shook her head.

"He won't," she said. "I know that."

"Then how is the young fool going to find the money in the time? Tell me that."

"He will find it," said Ann quietly. "I can't—tell you how. But if you'll wait six months, I'll give you my personal guarantee that the money shall be paid."

Brett's eyes narrowed again in sudden concentration.

"Your personal guarantee?"

"Yes, mine. If you'll wait six months—or even three"—urgently. "Oh, Brett, you will wait?"

"'Even three,'" he repeated thoughtfully. Suddenly he threw up his head and laughed. "I see it—it's as clear as daylight! I believe"—smiling blandly—"you are proposing to marry Coventry next month. At least, I'm told that's the programme. And I suppose you count on paying off Tony's debt—with Coventry's money. Is that it? What a charming arrangement!"

Ann felt her colour rise till her whole face and neck seemed scorching with the hot rush of blood.

"Whatever the arrangement would be, you may be sure it would be a perfectly fair one," she said steadily. "Nor does it concern you so long as you get the money owing to you."

"On the contrary, it would concern me very much to be paid off with Coventry's money. I shouldn't like it a bit. He's got the woman I want—and he can keep his damn money!"

Sick as she felt under the insult of his manner, Ann forced herself into making yet another appeal.

"Brett, please be merciful! Put me outside the matter altogether. It isn't a question of you and me. It's Tony. And"—her voice breaking—"I want to save him."

"I think it's very much a question of you and me," he retorted. "You asked me just now to extend the time of payment 'as an act of personal friendship to you.'"

She was silent, Inwardly writhing under the lash of his tongue. She wondered if Tony would ever know or guess all that this interview had cost her.

"I know I did," she acknowledged at last in a low voice.

Brett appeared to meditate a moment. Suddenly he looked across at her with eyes that sparkled dangerously.

"I won't take Coventry's money," he said deliberately. "But I tell you what I will do—I'll let you liquidate the debt."

"I?" She glanced at him swiftly. "I? How can I?"

"It's quite simple. Come and have supper with me—alone—to-morrow night on board the Sphinx, and in return I'll give you back those notes I hold of Brabazon's—every one of them."

"Oh, I couldn't!" Ann drew away from him instinctively. "You know I couldn't do that, Brett."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well, then, Tony must pay up—or go under," he answered nonchalantly.

"No, no!" She made a quick step forward. "Brett, it isn't fair—to ask me to do such a thing."

"Isn't it? It's asking very little, I think." His voice vibrated with a sudden note of passion. "You're going to marry Coventry. Very well. What am I asking? One little evening out of all your life—to call mine, to remember you by."

Ann was silent. Her thoughts were in a whirl. Here was a way by which she could save Tony—put things right for him. But at what a price! She shrank from the risk involved. If Eliot were to hear of it, to learn that she had had supper with Brett on board his yacht—alone, what would he think—suspect? His faith in her had not stood testing once before, when a pure accident had forced her into a false position. Would it stand now, if she did this thing? If, being Eliot's promised wife, she deliberately spent the evening on board the Sphinx with Brett? She knew it would not. The faith of very few men would remain proof against circumstances such as those—least of all, Eliot's. The grey, relentless shadow had suddenly swung forward, completely enveloping her path.

"No, Brett," she said at last. "I can't—do—that."

"Then, as I said, Tony must go under"—coolly.

She clenched her hands in an agony of indecision. Tony, whom Virginia had bequeathed to her—whom she had promised to shield from harm "if it was in any way possible"! She had thought that already she had paid to the utmost in the fulfilment of her trust by stooping to beg mercy at Brett's hands. But it seemed that the keeping of her promise to the dead woman was to cost still more—demanded the sacrifice of her own happiness, the faith and trust of the man who loved her. Piteously Ann reflected that could Virginia have known how matters stood she would never have exacted the fulfilment of any promise at such a fearful price. But Virginia could not know. And the promise held.

"Well?" queried Brett. He had been watching Ann's face closely while she fought her battle. "Well, will you come?"

She drew a long, shuddering breath.

"Yes. I'll come," she said.

Her voice sounded curiously weak and strange to her own ears—like that of some one else speaking. She wondered if she had really spoken audibly, and, in a sudden terror lest he shouldn't have heard her, she repeated the words with jerky emphasis.

"Yes. I'll come."

He made an abrupt movement towards her, but she shrank back out of his reach.

"You'll give me the notes if I come?" she asked rather Wildly. "You'll play fair, Brett?"

"Yes. I'll play fair."

"Then—then—will you go now, please?" She felt as though her strength were deserting her—as though she could bear no more.

He paused, regarding her irresolutely. Then he turned to the door.

"Very well, I'll go now. The dinghy will be waiting for you at the jetty to-morrow night at nine o'clock."

The door closed behind him and, left alone, Ann sank down on to the nearest chair, utterly overwhelmed by what had befallen her. An hour ago there had been not a cloud in her sky—the whole of life seemed stretching out before her filled with the promise of love and happiness. And now, with unbelievable suddenness, black and bitter storm-clouds had arisen and covered the entire heavens, till not even a flickering ray of light was visible. She remembered her strange, unconquerable fear of the yacht ... like a sleek cat watching at a mousehole.... Well, the cat had sprung now—leaped suddenly, striking into her very heart with its pitiless claws.

No tears came to her relief. She felt stunned—stunned, and remained limply in her chair, staring with dazed, unseeing eyes into space....

* * * * *

She was still sitting in the same position, gazing blankly in front of her, when Maria threw open the door to admit Mrs. Hilyard.

"I just looked in—" Cara, beginning to speak almost as she entered, broke off abruptly as she caught sight of Ann's stricken face. She hurried to her side. The girl's mute immobility frightened her.

"Ann!" she cried quickly. "What's happened? What is the matter with you?"

Slowly Ann turned her head towards her, regarding her with lack-lustre eyes.

"Nothing," she said. "Or everything. I'm not quite sure which."

She began to laugh a trifle hysterically, and Cara laid her hands firmly on her shoulders.

"Don't do that," she said sharply, giving her a little shake. "Pull yourself together, Ann, and tell me what's gone wrong."

With an effort Ann caught back the sobbing laugh that struggled in her throat for utterance. Getting up, she crossed the room to the window and stood there silently for a few moments, with her back towards Cara. When she turned round again it was obvious she had regained her self-control.

"I'm all right, now," she declared, smiling more naturally.

"Then tell me what's wrong, and let's put our heads together to get it right," replied Cara practically.

"Oh, yes, I'll tell you. But there's nothing in the world will put things right, all the same."

Very briefly she recapitulated the facts of the case, while Cara listened with an expression of increasing gravity.

"You can't go," she said with decision, when Ann ceased speaking. "Whatever else you do, you mustn't spend the evening on board his yacht alone with Brett."

"And if I'm to save Tony, it's the only thing to be done," replied Ann quietly.

"Then you must leave Tony to get out of his difficulties by himself. Sir Philip would pay, I expect, if the matter were put up to him."

Ann shook her head.

"I'm quite sure he wouldn't," she said, "There's no question of that. He's reached the limit of his patience. He'd simply turn Tony out of the house—turn him adrift. And that means shipwreck. Tony might—might even do—what he tried to do the other night. Kill himself. He's desperate. Don't you see, everything's doubly bad for him now—when he's in love with Doreen. Unless he's pulled out of this hole somehow, it means smashing up his whole life."

"And if you pull him out of it the way you propose doing, it means smashing up yours," returned Cara succinctly. "You know what Eliot's like—how jealous and suspicious. And you know Brett's reputation!"

"I can manage Brett," insisted Ann.

Cara made a swift gesture.

"It isn't that! It's Eliot, and you know it. If he ever came to hear that you'd been to supper on the Sphinx with Brett, he'd never trust you again."

"He might. I'm hoping—"

"He wouldn't"—with conviction. "It would wreck everything. Ann, don't be such a fool—such a fool!" Cara spoke with desperate intensity. "For God's sake, give up this crazy plan!"

"I can't. I must go. I've promised."

Her brows drawn together, Cara reflected a few minutes in silence. She looked as though she were trying to work out a problem of some kind—balancing the pros and cons. At last:

"There's only one way out of it," she said slowly. "Let me go instead of you. I think—I think I could make Brett see reason, and persuade him to give those notes of hand to me instead of to you. At any rate, let me try."

"No good," said Ann, shaking her head. "He wouldn't give them to you. He wants his pound of flesh"—bitterly.

"Why don't you ask Eliot to give you the money?" demanded Cara suddenly.

A deep flush stained Ann's cheeks.

"I've not fallen so low that I'll ask the man I'm engaged to for money with which to pay another man's debts."

"You'd ask him if you were married"—defiantly.

"In certain circumstances—yes. But that's different. Oh, you must see it's different! Besides, Tony would accept money from me, even though my husband had given it to me. But he'd be too proud to take it from Eliot—or from any one else."

"Too proud! It seems to me Tony's precious little to be proud about!"

"The more reason why he should keep any pride he has remaining. Don't be hard on him, Cara. Remember he's young, and that the instinct to gamble is in his very blood. This has been a lesson to him—a frightful lesson. I know—if he once gets clear of this—he'll run straight for the future."

"Then you must let me go to the yacht," insisted Cara with finality.

"No" The reply came with a definiteness there was no mistaking. "I've given my word to Brett that I'd come,"

"You know what Eliot will think if he hears of it? He'll probably—almost certainly—distrust you utterly, and it will ruin both your lives."

"I must risk that," said Ann quietly. "Tony's got to be saved somehow, and it's up to me to do it. He was 'left' to me, you know. Virginia trusted me. And I can't let her down."

There was something curiously strong and steadfast in her face as she spoke—something against which Cara realised that it was futile to strive any further. Reluctantly she desisted, but it was with a heavy heart that she at last quitted the Cottage, leaving Ann firm in her resolve to save Tony, no matter at what cost.

Ann woke early next morning, feeling rather as though it were to be her last day on earth. She thought she could appreciate to some extent the sensations of a man condemned to be executed the following dawn. To-day she was tremendously alive, with happiness cupped betwixt her hands, while the future of rose and gold beckoned her onward. To-morrow, that whole future might be wrenched from her, leaving her like one dead, with nothing to live for, nothing to hope.

When Eliot paid his usual daily visit she went tremulously to meet him. This might be the last time he would ever look at her with the eyes of love—the last time they would ever talk together as lovers. For her, his kisses held all the poignant ecstasy and pain of kisses that may be the last on earth.

He had noticed the Sphinx, lying at anchor in the bay, on his way to the Cottage.

"I suppose that chap Forrester is going to favour Silverquay with another visit," he remarked, as he and Ann strolled in the garden together. "I don't care for him," he added. "When we are married, Ann, I'd rather you didn't see any more of him than you can help. From all I can hear he hasn't too savoury a reputation."

Ann's heart sank. If Eliot thought that—felt like that about Brett, then there could be no hope of forgiveness if he ever found out that she had been to supper with him on the yacht. And now, appearances would be even stronger against her. It would look as though she had gone there deliberately in defiance of Eliot's expressed wishes.

She became unwontedly quiet—so much so that Eliot's solicitude was awakened.

"What's the matter with you to-day?" he asked, looking down keenly into her face as he held her in his arms. "Are you depressed or worried about anything, sweetheart?"

She roused herself to a smile.

"Worried? Why, what have I to be worried about—now we're together again?"

His face cleared.

"I suppose you're just feeling a bit lonely without that 'best brother' of yours. Is that it?"

"Yes. That's it," she said, nodding emphatically. "I miss Robin. You—you won't have to send him away again, Eliot."

"I don't think I shall," he returned, smiling, "if it reduces you to such a wan-looking little person. You're quite pale, Ann mine."

At parting, she clung to him as though she could never let him go.

"Why, what's this, child?" he asked, genuinely perturbed. "Are you really nervous at being left in the Cottage alone—even with the doughty Maria for company? If you are, I'll ride over to White Windows and ask Lady Susan to put you up there until Robin comes back."

"Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed hastily. "I'm perfectly all right. I am, really, Eliot. I didn't sleep very well last night, that's all."

"Well, then, take a rest after lunch. I shan't be able to come over this afternoon—I have to go to Ferribridge. So"—pinching her cheek—"your slumbers will be undisturbed. And go to bed early to-night," he added authoritatively.

He went away, and later Ann made a pretence at eating lunch. The idea of "taking a rest" almost brought a smile to her pale lips. There was nothing further from her than sleep. Her brain felt on fire, and the time seemed to race along, each minute bringing nearer the dreaded ordeal of the evening.

At seven Maria brought in dinner, and once again Ann had to make a pretence at eating. Every mouthful felt as though it would choke her. Then, just as she was wondering how on earth she was to dispose of what still remained on her plate without incurring Maria's displeasure, there came a ring at the bell, and a minute later Maria herself reappeared, carrying a telegram on a salver.

"From Master Robin, maybe, sayin' when he'll be home again," she suggested conversationally, while Ann tore open the envelope and withdrew the flimsy sheet.

"Don't come to-night,—FORRESTER."

Ann looked up from the single line of writing and spoke mechanically.

"No, it's not from Robin," she said. And tearing the telegram across she tossed the pieces into the fire, where a swift tongue of flame shot up and consumed them.

She was conscious of an immense surge of relief. She could not imagine what had happened. Possibly Cara had seen Brett and interceded with him. Or perhaps it was merely that some unexpected happening had made the projected supper an impossibility for that particular night.

But whatever it was, it meant a reprieve. A reprieve! She could hold her happiness unharmed a little longer....



CHAPTER XXXII

ON BOARD THE "SPHINX"

Brett glanced over the supper-table, laid for two, with an experienced eye. The lights, shining down upon dainty silver and crystal, added a more lustrous sheen to the crimson petals, like fringed velvet, of a bowl of exquisite deep-red carnations, and flickered gaily on the bright neck of a gold-foiled bottle which twinkled in the midst of the cool greyness of a pail of ice.

Satisfied with his inspection, Brett gave a little nod of approval. His manservant, Achille Dupont, who accompanied him wherever he went, had all a Frenchman's quick grasp of a situation, he reflected. Moreover, the man possessed the invaluable faculty of getting on well with the members of the yacht's company, so that his coming on board with his master and waiting on him exclusively failed to create any resentment. In addition to this, he was dowered with the golden gift of discretion. Achille never suffered from a misplaced curiosity concerning his master's doings. He accepted them blandly, and although Brett supposed there would be a certain amount of gossip on board the yacht concerning this night's doings, he felt serenely sure that Achille himself would preserve a strict reticence concerning anything that he might chance to observe or overhear in the performance of his duty of serving the supper.

The clock had struck nine some few minutes ago, and Brett pictured the dinghy slipping over the smooth water with Ann, hooded and cloaked, sitting in the stern. He could almost visualise her young, tense-lipped face with its courageous eyes gazing ahead into the darkness. She would have need of all her courage before the evening was over. That he admitted. But he comforted himself with the reflection, that, whatever happened, she had brought it on herself. She had refused to marry him, while he was fully determined that she should be his wife. In a way, he felt distinctly resentful that her obstinacy had driven him into employing such methods as he proposed to use to-night.

The door opened, and to the accompaniment of a respectful murmur of "Mademoiselle est arrivee" from Achille, a woman's figure, shrouded in furs and with a scarf twisted round her head, slipped past the Frenchman, and stood poised just inside the threshold as though uncertain whether to stay or go. Achille retired and closed the door noiselessly behind him, thus deciding the matter.

"Ann!" cried Brett triumphantly. "I wondered—I half doubted whether you would come, after all! Let me help you," he added quickly, as the woman threw back the fur wrap she was wearing, and with a deft movement, untwisted the scarf from her hair.

"It's not Ann," said a cool feminine voice, and with a swift turn of her wrist the visitor drew the swathing scarf aside and revealed the small dark head and pansy-purple eyes of the lady from the Priory.

Brett fell back a pace, his face wearing an expression of such blank amazement that for a moment Cara could hardly refrain from laughing out loud. But he recovered himself with surprising quickness, and looked her up and down with characteristic coolness.

"I don't think I remember inviting you for to-night," he said slowly.

"No," she replied. "I've come instead of Ann. Brett, you had no right to ask her here."

His eyes flashed wickedly, but he preserved his coolness.

"That, I think, is my business," he responded.

"It's not." A note of deep feeling came into her voice. "It's the business of every one who cares for Ann to protect her from her own rash unselfishness. Just to please yourself, you asked her to come here, without a thought as to how it would affect her reputation—how people might talk. And you used those bills of Tony's as a lever."

"Really, your perspicacity does you credit," he returned ironically. "I saw no other way of getting her here, so, as you truthfully remark, I used those bits of paper as a lever."

"Well"—quickly. "I've come for those bits of paper, as you call them."

Brett shook his head regretfully.

"I never made any bargain to give them to—you, even though you have condescended to honour the Sphinx with your presence to-night," he said.

Cara approached the table.

"No. I didn't expect them in return for that," she replied. "I'm proposing to give you the usual return for notes of hand—payment of the amount owing."

To make this proposal had been her intention when she had first suggested to Ann that she should take her place as Forrester's guest. She had not dared to offer the necessary money as an outright loan, realising that the girl would have refused it on Tony's behalf peremptorily, so she had inwardly resolved to redeem the bills Brett held without consulting her.

She opened a small, ivory-mounted wrist-bag she carried, and withdrew a bundle of crisp Bank of England notes.

"I think the sum owing is twelve hundred," she said composedly. "There's the money. Will you count it, please, and let me have the bills Tony has given you."

Brett stood quietly looking down at the small heap of notes, but he made no effort to pick them up.

"I'd forgotten you were a wealthy woman," he remarked contemplatively.

Cara laughed rather bitterly.

"Heaven knows I've not found my wealth of much value to me before," she said. "But I shall think more of it in the future if it can get a friend out of trouble. Come, take the money, Brett, and give me the bills," she added, with a touch of impatience.

He picked up one of the notes and fingered it thoughtfully, then replaced it on the pile once more.

"I'm sorry," he said mildly. "But it isn't you who owe me this money. It's Brabazon. So I can't accept repayment from you."

Cara glanced at him swiftly. Her lips felt suddenly dry.

"What do you mean?" she asked nervously.

"Just what I say. Brabazon is my debtor—you haven't authority to act for him, by any chance, have you?"

"Authority? No. But I'm willing—I'm only too glad to be able to do this for him."

Brett pushed the bundle of notes across the table towards her.

"I'm sorry," he repeated pensively. "It's very good of you, of course. But I couldn't possibly take your money. I happen to be the holder of the bills, and I only give them back to Brabazon for the amount owing—or to Ann on the terms I suggested. Otherwise"—a sudden flame leapt up in his eyes—"I keep them."

Cara stood as though turned to stone. The whole thing became perfectly clear to her on the instant. It had not been just a carelessly selfish proposal—that bargain he had made with Ann—but a deliberately thought-out scheme. Slowly she replaced the useless notes in the little silken bag which had held them.

"Ah! I see you understand," he observed, watching her with some amusement.

She looked at him with a desperate demand in her eyes.

"Brett, what did you mean to do? What was your plan—if Ann had come?" she asked in a low, shaken voice.

He laughed.

"Can't you guess? Really, Cara, I think I complimented you on your perspicacity too soon! It seems to be—halting a little, shall we say?—now."

"You didn't ask her here just for the pleasure it would give you—there was something else—"

"It was partly for that. I at least made sure of a few hours alone with her!" A note of passion roughened his voice for a moment. Then he forced it back and his blue eyes laughed at her again, audaciously. "But it was partly for the displeasure which I thought it might give to some one else."

"Eliot!"

"Even so. He's not got precisely what you'd call an equable temperament, has he?"

"And you knew"—slowly—"that if he discovered Ann had been here—"

"Exactly"—with a mocking bow. "You've guessed it. 'The marriage arranged'—would not take place."

Cara stared at him in frank horror.

"Then it was a trap!" she exclaimed, and beneath the utter scorn and contempt which rang in her voice any other man would have winced. But it affected Brett not one jot.

"Yes. And would have succeeded admirably, but for your interference. Tell me, how did you persuade Ann not to come? It isn't like her to back out of a bargain."

"No, it isn't," agreed Cara warmly. "Ann would always keep her word—even if the keeping of it half killed her."

"Then how?"

There was a suspicion of veiled triumph in her smile.

"It was quite simple," she said. "I sent her a wire, saying, 'Don't come to-night'—and signed it 'Forrester.'"

Brett burst out laughing.

"My felicitations! That was quite a stroke after my own heart! But still, you'll agree, it was rather a liberty to take with my name, wasn't it?"

"A liberty? Perhaps. But you were trying to ruin Ann's name—and her happiness. Won't you change your mind, Brett, and sell me those notes of hand?" she added, with a sudden entreaty.

"I hate refusing you," he smiled back.

She realised the futility of pleading with him further, and drew her furs round her shoulders preparatory to leaving him.

"Then I'll go back. I'm sorry I've failed. But thank God I at least prevented Ann from coming here herself."

She moved towards the door, but Brett was before her, and planted himself with his back against it.

"Let me pass, Brett," she said quietly, though her heart beat a shade faster in her breast.

"Again I'm sorry to refuse you," he returned mockingly.

"You can't—keep me here!"

"Can't I? If you interfere with other people's love affairs, you must be prepared to take the consequences. In this ease the consequence is supper with me."

Cara hesitated. She could not struggle with him, and in his present mood she thought it quite possible he might oppose with actual physical force any attempt on her part to leave the yacht. If he did, of course, she would be perfectly helpless. Forcing herself to a composure she was far from feeling, she turned away from the door he was guarding with a slight shrug of her shoulders.

"I've no wish to have supper with you," she said.

"No? Yet, after all, it's you who've despoiled me of my rightful guest," he returned, with bland mockery in eyes and voice. "It's certainly up to you to provide a substitute. Perhaps"—banteringly—"we might even discuss the question of those notes of hand again—later on! A man's obstinacy sometimes melts as the evening advances, you know."

A faint hope stirred in Cara's heart. Perhaps, if she yielded to his wishes now, without further argument, she might be able, later on, to induce him to reconsider his decision—to persuade him to be merciful. He seemed to read her thoughts with an uncanny insight.

"You'll stay?" he said.

She nodded, and he helped off the heavy fur wrap she was wearing. Then he pressed the bell-push and, when Achille appeared, gave a curt order for supper to be served. As the Frenchman departed his quick eyes flickered a moment over Cara's beautiful face and milk-white shoulders. Decidedly, he reflected, his master had good taste.

The supper, as might have been expected, was a very perfectly chosen repast, and as the meal progressed Cara was fain to acknowledge that Brett knew how to act the part of host most charmingly. On her side she played up pluckily, hoping that by falling in with his humour she might yet win the odd trick of the game.

It was not until they had reached the coffee and cigarette stage that he reverted to the avowed object of her visit to the yacht.

"It was really rather a sporting attempt on your part," he remarked, "even though foredoomed to failure. Will you tell me"—curiously—"what induced you to do it?"

"I'm very fond of Ann," returned Cara evasively.

He shook his head.

"I don't think that can have been all. You were running"—he regarded her through narrowed lids—"a pretty big risk, and you're woman of the world enough to know it. You are quite at my mercy, you see. A woman doesn't run that kind of risk—for another woman." He leaned across the little table, his compelling blue eyes concentrated on her face. "Do tell me why you did it?"

For a moment she was silent. Then, lifting her eyes to meet his, she said simply:

"I did it because once—years ago—I robbed Eliot Coventry of his happiness. I wanted to give it back to him."

"And you were prepared to risk your reputation over the job?"—swiftly.

"Yes," she answered quietly. "I was prepared."

"Then you must have felt quite convinced he was in danger of losing his happiness—to me?"—with lightning triumph.

"Not to you—through you," she corrected quietly.

"Ann would have promised to marry me to-night."

"I'm sure she would not. But it was almost inevitable that Eliot would misunderstand—distrust her, if he learned that she had been here with you—this evening."

Brett nodded composedly.

"Yes. And I don't think the only explanation she could have offered would have helped her much—that it was done for the sake of Tony Brabazon! It was a big thing for any woman to do for a man—unless she cared for him! And"—he uttered a light laugh—"I fancy Coventry's jealousy of Brabazon would have wakened up again quite quickly in the circumstances. Oh!"—with an impatient gesture—"it was a lovely scheme—absolutely watertight, if only you hadn't meddled!"

He looked across at her with an expression that held a droll mixture of anger and mortification, not unlike the expression, of a child who, having banged a new toy too ecstatically upon the floor, sees it suddenly drop to pieces.

"Not altogether watertight," observed Cara calmly. "There was a chance—quite a good chance, too—that Eliot might not have heard a single word about the matter—might never have known that Ann had been here."

"Bah!"—arrogantly. "I don't leave things like that—to chance. I wasn't taking any chances. I arranged that Coventry should know all right."

Cara started.

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"What do I mean?" He smiled derisively. "Why, that old chap who lives at the lodge at Heronsmere, old chap with a face like a gargoyle—Brady, what's his name?"

"Bradley," supplied Cara.

"Yes, that's it. Bradley. A cunning old rascal, if ever there was one—he'd sell his immortal soul for the price of a drink. I told him"—watching her keenly while he spoke—"that his master would probably like to know that a certain young lady in whom he was interested would be found on board the Sphinx this evening if he wanted to see her."

"You told him that?" gasped Cara, stricken with dismay.

"Certainly I did"—triumphantly. "And I gave him a five-pound note to jog his memory. I don't think he'll omit to hand on the information as desired. I should say"—glancing at the clock—"that we might expect Coventry along at any moment now."

Cara half rose from the table. Her face was very white, her eyes dilated with horror.

"Perhaps—perhaps he won't come—won't believe it," she stammered faintly, with a desperate hope that she might be speaking the truth.

Brett smiled unpleasantly.

"I think he'll believe it all right. I gave Bradley very clear instructions. But, in any case," he added easily, "I'd prepared for the possible contingency that the old fool might bungle matters."

"How?" Her voice was almost inaudible.

"Why, then, I should simply have steamed away with my honoured guest on board. After a day or two's trip at sea, I think there'd be no question Ann would accept me as her husband. The position would be an even more awkward one than her predicament at the Dents de Loup. Her presence on the yacht could hardly be explained away as an—accident"—significantly. "But I preferred my first plan—it entailed less publicity"—with a short laugh.

Cara sprang up, her eyes blazing. In the torrent of scorn and anger which swept over her at his duplicity—at the nonchalant recital of it all—the embarrassment of her own situation was temporarily lost sight of.

"Brett, I think you must be absolutely devoid of any sense of right or wrong! I never heard of anything more utterly fiendish and heartless in the whole of my life. Have you no conscience, no decent feeling, that you could plot and plan to ruin a woman's happiness as you would have ruined Ann's? Oh! It's unbelievable! I think you must be a devil incarnate!"

He rose too, his eyes smouldering dangerously. The veneer of polished mockery had dropped from him suddenly.

"I'm not. I'm a man in love," he said thickly. "I wanted her—God, how I wanted her! And, but for you, I'd have succeeded. You've robbed me—robbed me of my mate!..." His lips drew back over his teeth in a kind of snarl. "I think you deserve to be punished," he went on slowly and significantly. "What's to prevent my putting out to sea—now—this minute—and taking you with me?"

"Brett—" She shrank back, suddenly terrified. His eyes were blazing with a reckless fury—mad eyes. She made a dart for the door, but before she could reach it he had caught her by the arm, his strong fingers crushing deep into her white flesh.

"Well, why not?" he jeered savagely. "You came here in Ann's place of your own free will! Supposing you take her place—altogether—"

A tap sounded on the door. Brett's hand fell away from her arm, and she stood quiveringly waiting for what might come. After a discreet pause Achille entered, advancing with soft, cat-like tread.

"For mademoiselle," he said, tendering a note to Cara on a salver.

As she took the note she vaguely noticed that it bore no superscription. With trembling fingers she tore it open.

"I hear you are on the Sphinx. I'm quite sure you must have a good reason for being there, if you are there of your own free will. But in case you are not, and need help, I wanted you to know I've come on board and will take you home whenever you wish,—E."

Cara glanced across at Brett, who was watching her curiously. She slipped the note, intended for Ann, into the bosom of her gown and turned to Achille.

"Tell Mr. Coventry Miss Lovell is not on board the Sphinx," she said quietly.

"Coventry!" broke violently from Brett. "Where is he, Achille?"

"He come in a boat from the shore, monsieur. Just now. He wait only an answer to zis lettaire." The man bowed and retired, leaving Brett and Cara staring at each other.

"You would not have come between Eliot and Ann, after all," she said proudly. "Your trick would have misfired. He trusts her—absolutely."

She had hardly finished speaking when the sound of a scuffle came from the companion-way, accompanied by a stream of voluble French. Then: "Get out of my way!" came in good, robust English, and an instant later Eliot's big frame appeared in the doorway.

"I want an explanation, Forrester—" he began sternly. Then fell silent, while his senses quietly absorbed the whole scene before him—the man and woman in evening dress, the flower-decked table with its half-emptied coffee-cups and evidences of a recent gay little supper, the mingled scent of cigarette smoke and carnations. Last of all, his glance, cold and contemptuous, swept over Cara's white face.

He gave a short laugh.

"Bradley misled me," he observed coolly. "There's no one here in whom I'm interested." For a moment his eyes—accusing, utterly scornful—met and held Cara's. Then he looked across at Brett. "I understood you were alone, Forrester. I regret my intrusion." With a curt bow he was gone.

As the door closed behind him Cara sank down mutely into her chair. She gazed wearily in front of her. There was no need to ask herself what Eliot thought. It had been written plainly in his eyes.

Presently she turned her head and looked across at Brett.

"Well?" she said tonelessly. "I hope you're satisfied. I don't think you need bother any more about—punishing me."

The savage anger had died out of his face. He was regarding her with an odd look of surprise. There had been no mistaking the anguish of her expression as she had grasped Eliot's swift and cruel interpretation of the scene. She had looked like a woman on the rack.

"So ... Coventry was the man ... before you married that bounder, Dene." Brett spoke very quietly, like a man communing with himself, fitting together the pieces of a puzzle.

She nodded.

"Yes," was all she said.

He sat down on the opposite side of the table and leaned forward, still with that half-surprised curiosity on his face.

"Then why didn't you clear yourself just now? You could have done. Why on earth didn't you explain?"

A twisted little smile tilted her mouth.

"Because—because I wanted to keep Ann out of it. Don't you see—he thinks Bradley made a mistake. He need never know—now—that Ann even thought of coming. I've ... made sure ... of his happiness. I took it away once. Now I've given it back."

Brett got up abruptly. That twisted little smile hiding a supreme agony touched him as no woman's grief had ever touched him yet.... The low, toneless confession with its quiet immolation of self.... He put his hand into his pocket, and, drawing out a packet of loose papers, banded together with elastic, flung them down on to the table.

"Oh, hang!" he said gruffly. "There are the bills Brabazon gave me. By God, you've earned them!"

Cara stretched her hand out slowly and touched the packet with hesitating fingers.

"Do you mean this, Brett?"

"Certainly I mean it."

She stared at him almost incredulously.

"I believe you're—sorry," she said slowly.

But in that she miscalculated. Brett would be an unrepentant sinner to the end of his days. He laughed and shook his head.

"Not in the way you mean. Frankly and honestly—Oh, yes"—catching the faint quizzical gleam in her eyes—"I can be both when I want to. The Devil quoting Scripture, you know! Frankly, then, I'm merely sorry that my plan miscarried. It was a splendid plan! Its only fault was that it didn't succeed.... But I know when I'm beaten. And you've beaten me."

A few minutes later they stood together on the deck, waiting for the dinghy to come alongside.

"Good-night, Brett," she said, holding out her hand.

He lifted it to his lips with audacious grace.

"It will be a bad night—thanks to you!" he returned with a last flash of mocking humour.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE VISION FULFILLED

Ann opened her next morning's mail with nervously eager fingers. A couple of tradesmen's bills, an advertisement for somebody's infallible cure-all, and a letter from Robin saying that he would reach home the following day—that was all. Not a line from Brett. Nothing in explanation of his last evening's telegram.

There is a wise old saw which asserts that "no news is good news," but Ann could extract no comfort from it. Such hackneyed sayings did not take into consideration people of Brett Forrester's temperament, she reflected bitterly. Something had occurred to prevent the carrying out of his plans for last night, but not for one moment did she imagine that he would allow anything to divert him permanently from his intention of compelling her to buy Tony's freedom on the terms he had already fixed. That fact must still be faced, and the absence of any word from Brett this morning increased illimitably the sense of strain under which she was labouring. Last evening she had keyed herself up to the required pitch for the ordeal which awaited her. And now the whole agony and terror would have to be gone through again!

She wandered restlessly from the house to the garden and then back again, her nerves ragged-edged with suspense. If she could only know what had occurred last night to prompt that wire, what Brett now proposed, what further troubles there were in store, she felt she could have borne it better. She was never afraid to face definite difficulties. It was this terrible inaction and uncertainty which she found so unendurable.

The minutes crawled by on leaden feet. When she returned from feeding her poultry she was absolutely aghast to hear the church clock only striking ten! It seemed to her that a whole eternity of time had elapsed since the moment when the delivery of the morning post, destitute of news from Brett, had plunged her into this dreadful agony of uncertainty.

Suddenly she heard the gate click. She had been unconsciously listening for that sound with an intensity of which she was unaware—expecting, hoping, almost praying for tidings of some kind. Surely, if he did not come himself, Brett would at least send her a message of some sort!

When at last the click and rattle of the wooden gate, as it swung to, smote on her ears, she felt powerless to go and meet whoever it might be whose coming the sound heralded. A curious numbness pervaded all her limbs, and she leaned against the table, almost holding her breath, while the measured tread of Maria's sturdy feet resounded along the passage leading from the kitchen to the front of the house.

Ann heard the opening of the cottage door, followed by the soft murmur of women's voices instead of by the high treble of the telegraph boy which she had expected. Then the swish of a skirt, the lifting of a latch, and Cara came quickly into the room.

The tension of Ann's nerves relaxed, giving place to a spiritless acceptance of the inevitable. There was no message from Brett, after all! It was only Cara—Cara who had come to ask the success or failure of her last night's interview with him. The irony of it!

Ann began to speak at once, anticipating the first question which she knew the other would be sure to put. It would be better to get it over at once.

"I didn't go to the yacht," she said baldly. "Brett wired me not to come."

Cara nodded.

"I know. But I went," she answered quietly.

"You?" Ann stared at her. "You went—to the yacht!" she repeated in tones of stupefaction.

"Yes. And I got what I wanted. These are the bills which Tony gave to Brett—and there's a note for you, as well," she added with a fugitive smile.

She slid the whole packet on to the table, and Ann picked up one of the stamped oblong slips of paper and examined it with a curious sense of detachment.

"'Bill or note.'" She read aloud the words which crowned and footed the Government stamp. Then she laid the bill back on the top of the others.

"But I don't understand," she said. "How did—you—get these!"

"Sit down, and I'll tell you," replied Cara.

Ann sat down obediently, feeling as though she were living and moving in a dream. Once she glanced almost apprehensively towards the small heap of bills on the table. Yes, they were still there. Those narrow strips of paper which spelt for Tony a fresh chance in life and for herself release from any future domination of Brett Forrester's. Not yet could she realise the full wonder and joy of it—all the splendour of life and love which their mere presence there gave back to her. For the moment she was only conscious of an extraordinary calm—like the quiescence which succeeds relief from physical agony, when the senses, dulled by suffering, are for a short space contented with the mere absence of actual pain.

At first she fixed her eyes almost unseeingly on Cara, as the latter began to recount the events of the previous evening, but swiftly a look of attention dawned in them. The realities of life were coming back to her, and by the time Cara had finished her story—beginning with the sending of the telegram in Brett's name and ending with the final surrender of the notes of hand—she had grasped the significance of what had happened.

"And you did this—risked so much—for me?" she said, trembling a little. "Oh, Cara!"

Cara was silent a moment. Then she leaned forward.

"Not only for you, Ann," she said gently, "Do you remember my telling you that a woman once—jilted Eliot Coventry?"

Ann's startled eyes met the grave, sorrowful ones of the woman who bent towards her. But she averted them quickly. Something—some fine, instinctive understanding forbade that she should look at her just then.

"Yes" she answered, hardly above her breath.

Cara hesitated. Then she spoke, unevenly, and with a slight, difficult pause now and again between her words.

"I was that woman. I—robbed him of his belief in things—of his chance of happiness. I didn't realise all I was doing at the time. But afterwards—I knew.... Ever since then, I've wanted to give it back to him—all that I robbed him of. I made his life bitter—and I wanted to make it sweet again. To give him back his happiness.... Last night, I paid my debt."

Ann had been listening with bent head. Now she lifted it, and her eyes held a terrible questioning. Behind the questioning lay terror—the terror of one who sees a heaven regained suddenly barred away.

"Then he ... you...." She could not even formulate the aching demand of her whole soul and body. But Cara understood. Love had taught her all there was to know of love.

"Eliot's love for me died ten years ago," she said simply.

"And yours?" asked Ann painfully. "Not yours. Or you wouldn't—you couldn't—have done this—for him."

For an instant Cara closed her eyes. Then she spoke, with white lips, but with a quiet, steadfast decision that carried absolute conviction.

"I know what you are thinking," she said. "But you are wrong—quite wrong. There is nothing left between Eliot Coventry and me—nothing—except remembrance. And for the sake of that remembrance—for the sake of what was, though it has been, dead these many years—I have done what I have done."

The question died out of Ann's eyes—answered once and for ever, and Cara stifled a sigh of relief as she watched the faint colour steal back into the girl's cheeks.

"I don't know how I could have thought you still cared," said Ann presently. "It was silly of me—when you are going to marry Robin."

"Yes. Robin and I are going to start a new life together. He knows—what happened—years ago. And he understands. I hope"—forcing herself to speak more lightly—"I hope he won't be too shocked at my flight to the yacht last night to marry me after all!"

Ann laughed.

"I don't think you need be afraid," she answered affectionately. "But Eliot!" She paused in consternation, then went on quickly: "What did he think when he found you there, Cara? Do you know what he thought?"

Cara's expression hardened a little.

"Yes, I know," she said shortly.

"And I can guess," returned Ann. She sprang up from her chair with all her old characteristic impetuosity. "And he's not going to think—that—a moment longer. I suppose"—her voice seemed to glow and the eyes she bent on Cara were wonderfully tender—"I suppose you wouldn't explain because you wanted to keep me out of it?" Then, as Cara nodded assent: "I thought so! Well, I'm not going to be kept out of it. I'm going straight across to Heronsmere—now, at once—to tell Eliot the whole truth."

She swept Cara's protest royally aside, and within a few minutes Cara herself was on her way home and Billy Brewster flinging the harness on the pony's back at unprecedented speed.

But Dick Turpin was spared the necessity of making the whirlwind rush to Heronsmere which loomed ahead of him, by the opportune appearance of Eliot himself at the Cottage gate.

Ann drew him quickly into the house.

"I was just coming over to see you," she told him swiftly. "It's—it's about last night."

His face darkened.

"About last night?" he repeated. "What about it?"

"You found—Cara—on board Brett's yacht."

"I did—and drew my own conclusions."

"Well, they were wrong ones," said Ann. Then, seeing that he looked quite unconvinced, she went on quickly lest her courage should fail her. "If it had not been for Cara, you would have found me there—"

"You? Then it's true—true you actually intended going there? Bradley was right?"

"Yes, he told you just what he had been ordered to tell you. Brett believed I was coming—he was expecting me. I promised to go because he held some bills of Tony's—Tony had borrowed from him far more than he could pay. And Brett bargained with me that he would give them up if I would go to supper with him on the Sphinx." The whole story came tumbling out in quick, vivid sentences. In a few moments Eliot was in possession of all the facts which lay behind his discovery of Cara on the yacht.

"So Cara had taken your place." There was a strange new gentleness in his voice as he spoke of the woman who had first broken and then built up his life again.

"Yes. I was afraid—afraid that if you knew I had been there, you would believe—what you believed once before."

A stifled ejaculation broke from him.

"You thought that?" he said, his voice suddenly roughened by pain. "Oh, my dear, do you think I haven't learned my lesson—yet?"

She looked at him doubtfully.

"How could I know? Oh, Eliot"—with tragic poignancy—"how could I know?"

For a moment the man and woman stood looking at each other in silence, separated once more by the grey shadow which had fallen again between them—the shadow of an old distrust. All at once Eliot's pain-wrung face relaxed.

"Didn't you get my note?" he asked eagerly. "Didn't Cara give it you?"

"Your—note?" For an instant Ann was puzzled. Then she remembered. Cara had said there was a note for her. At the time she had assumed it was a note from Brett, and in listening to the history of all that had taken place upon the yacht she had never given it another thought. She turned to the sheaf of bills still lying on the table. Yes, it was there, hidden beneath the bill which she had picked up to examine, afterwards replacing it on the top of the pile.

She unfolded the note and read it in silence, and, as she read, the grey shadow which had dimmed even the radiance of love itself unfurled its wings and fled away.

There could never be any more questioning or doubt. She knew now that Eliot's faith in her was perfected. He had written this—these words of utter trust—in circumstances which might have shaken the belief of almost any man. And his faith had remained steadfast. Love, which casteth out fear, had cast out this last fear of all.

"Eliot"—Ann's voice broke a little—"you've given me the one thing I still needed—the absolute certainty of your faith in me."

"I believe in you as I believe in God," he answered simply.

He drew her into his arms.

"And you, beloved—do you know what you have done for me? You have closed the gates of memory, shown me the way into the 'happy garden'—given me beauty for ashes."

A silence fell between them. But it was the silence of complete and perfect understanding. Together they would go forth into the future, unafraid.

THE END