The Duchess of Dawn was dining a number of notabilities at the Savoy, on her way to a command performance at the Gaiety; a fact of which the fashionable world was well aware, because the young duchess is a great lady in London as well as elsewhere, and all her doings are chronicled in advance. The fashionable world had promptly decided to dine there too, and telephoned in breathless haste for tables. It filled the restaurant at an unusually early hour, and a disappointed overflow displayed itself in the foyer.

The Duchess of Dawn is one of the most beautiful women in England. The eyes of the fashionable world were focussed on her and her guests, among whom were a minor European prince and a famous field-marshal who had not been on show in London for long, until there appeared from the crowded foyer, upon the arm of an old-young man of distinguished appearance and faultless tenue, a tall, slender girl, at whom, as she passed, every one turned to gaze, with undisguised admiration or envy, according to sex and temperament.

She was gowned to distraction, and by an artist in women's wear. Her beautiful bare arms and shoulders and bosom were free of superfluous ornament. Her pure, proud, sensitive features were faintly flushed,—as though, if that were conceivable, she was wearing evening dress for the first time, and found it trying,—but her curved crimson lips were slightly parted in a most bewitching smile, and, from under their drooping lashes, her radiant eyes looked a demure, amused, impersonal defiance at the frankly curious faces upturned toward her. The shaded lights made most enchanting lights and shadows among her hair, red-gold and heaped about her head in heavy coils, as she moved modestly through the thronged room toward a corner where, about a beautifully decorated table, four motionless waiters were standing guard over four empty chairs.

She sat down there, her back to the bulk of the company, and her escort took the seat opposite. A portly, prosperous-looking, elderly man, with something a little suspicious about one of his eyes, and a squat, queerly-shaped old fellow in semi-clerical garb and wearing smoked glasses, completed the party. Their waiters began to hover about them, and the fashionable world went on with its dinner.

"Who was that lovely girl?" the Duchess of Dawn demanded of her vis-À-vis, the veteran soldier, and he, reputed among women to have no heart at all, recalled himself with an evident start from the reverie into which he had fallen. He almost blushed, indeed, under the duchess's blandly discerning smile.

"I don't know, I'm sure, duchess," he returned, smiling also, in spite of himself, and beckoned to a servant behind him, whom he despatched on some errand.

"She's registered as Miss Harris, your lordship," the man announced in an undertone when he returned.

"Miss Harris!" echoed the prince, who was also a soldier. He had overheard. And, as he in turn caught the duchess's eyes, he lay back laughing, a little ruefully. But the man opposite him, the master of armies, was not amused.

"I'd like to know who and what those three fellows with Miss Harris may be," said he.

At their table in the corner, they seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. The three men were toasting Sallie and each other with equal good-will. And even Sallie had dismissed from her mind the last of her lingering doubts as to the reality and endurance of her part in that most amazing new life, had put the past with all its horrors resolutely behind her, was too much interested in the entertaining present to trouble about the future at the moment.

Captain Dove had seemingly forgotten, for the time being at any rate, his grievance against Slyne, and was in his most lamb-like mood. While Slyne did not even demur against the quantities of expensive wine the old man consumed during dinner. Mr. Jobling, too, was displaying symptoms of convivial hilarity when they at length left the restaurant. But most of the other tables were empty by then.

Mr. Jobling and Captain Dove, arm in arm, affectionately maintained each other as far as their sitting-room, while Slyne accompanied Sallie to her own door. He had been making himself most agreeable to her, and had pointed out a number of the notorieties and one or two of the celebrities present; although it had somewhat startled her to be told that she would very soon be on familiar terms with them all.

"Aren't you glad now that you agreed to the bargain we made on the Olive Branch—and in Monte Carlo?" he asked by the way. He was smiling gaily.

She smiled back at him, and, "I'm not sorry—so far, Jasper," she answered, looking deep into his eyes.

He nodded, as if quite satisfied, and turned away to escape that embarrassing scrutiny.

"We'll be starting in half an hour or so," he informed her from a safe distance, and, "I'll be all ready," she called cheerfully after him.

A little before eleven he came in again and they all set out for the station to catch their train.

It was a cold, clear, frosty night, and the Strand was at its busiest as Sallie looked out at it from the taxi into which Slyne and Ambrizette had followed her at the hotel portico. Another, containing Captain Dove and their legal adviser, still on the most amicable terms, although Captain Dove as a rule could not stand anyone afflicted with hiccough, crawled close behind them through the turmoil until, at the Gaiety corner, a policeman delayed it to let the cross-traffic through.

A crowd had gathered there to gaze at the royalties who would presently be coming out of the theatre. Slyne drew Sallie back from the open window at sight of two men, one of whom seemed all shirt-front, looking down at the congested street from the empty steps of the principal entrance.

"That ass Ingoldsby!" he explained to Sallie, and was evidently a good deal disturbed. "And—Dubois, as well," he added. "I thought I had shaken him off in Paris. I'm sure he saw me, too."

A little farther on he stopped the taxi and beckoned to one of those street-arabs who make a living about the kerb.

"Go to the gentleman with the beard, on the steps of the Gaiety," he instructed that very alert messenger, "and say to him that a friend wants a word with him here."

Sallie observed the suppressed grimace of surprise on the face of the individual who almost at once arrived in the wake of his ragged Mercury: and Slyne, having tossed the latter a shilling, held out his hand to M. Dubois.

"Charmed to see you in London, mon confrÈre," said he. "Have you yet discovered your man?"

"I am hard at his heels," the detective answered, his eyes searching Slyne's as if, Sallie thought, for some sign that that shaft had hit home.

But Slyne's expression was one of ingenuous simplicity. He bowed, as if with deep respect.

"I caught a glimpse of some one most amazingly like myself, one day on the Faubourg St. HonorÉ, as I was passing through Paris," he mentioned reflectively.

"Thanks," returned Dubois. "It was he, no doubt. And—he's in London now."

Slyne did not wince, even at that.

"He was dining at the Savoy to-night," said Dubois indifferently. "How does your own affair progress?"

"Assez bien," Slyne answered in an even voice. "I have followed my quarry home and am awaiting developments."

"You will be in London for a little, then?"

"For the next week or ten days, I expect," Slyne lied with perfect aplomb.

"We shall meet again, in that case," declared the detective, glancing at Sallie; and, "Au plaisir de vous revoir, monsieur," Slyne returned deferentially.

"To Grosvenor Square now—and hurry along," he directed the driver in a voice his enemy could not fail to hear. And the taxicab swung into Drury Lane, on its way west.

For a few minutes he sat silent, with bent head, biting at his moustache. Then he looked round at Sallie.

"That fellow takes me for another man," he told her querulously. "He's been dogging me ever since he first saw me at Monte Carlo. You've no idea, Sallie, what a dangerous risk I had to run there—for your sake."

"You haven't told me much about—anything, Jasper," she reminded him. And he proceeded to describe in lurid detail the fate which would undoubtedly have befallen him had M. Dubois been able then to fasten on him responsibility for the misdeeds of that criminal whom he so unfortunately resembled.

Sallie listened in silence. She had been wondering whether M. Dubois could be in any way concerned with her affairs. She gathered that he was interested only in Slyne. The latter's story of grave risk run for her sake fell somewhat flat, since it seemed to rest on the mere possibility of his having been mistaken for somebody else. She could scarcely believe that his fear of M. Dubois had no other foundation. She even ventured to suggest that he could easily have proved the detective in the wrong.

"He wouldn't have paid the slightest attention to anything I could say," Slyne assured her tartly. "He wouldn't have asked any questions or listened to any statement of mine. You don't know anything about the outrages that are committed every day by fellows like that on men like myself who have no fixed residence, Sallie; and no powerful friends to whom to appeal against such infernal injustice. I can't tell you how thankful I'll be, on your account as well as my own, when we're married and safely settled down, with a home of our own to feel safe in!

"Look, there's where we'll live when we're in London."

Sallie looked out. They were whirling past one of the most imposing houses in Grosvenor Square. "Is it an hotel?" she asked, and observed that all but one or two of its topmost windows were dark.

"It's the Earl of Jura's town house," said Slyne, apparently somewhat piqued by her seeming indifference. "It's yours now—or will be as soon as the Chancery Court wakes up again."

Sallie glanced back and caught another glimpse of it as the taxicab slowed again to take the corner of the square. Slyne had picked up the speaking-tube.

"Get us to the station now, as fast as you can," he told the driver: and then, having glanced at his watch, lighted a cigarette. He seemed to have no more to say at the moment, and Sallie was busy with thoughts of her own. She was wondering whether Justin Carthew could be living in that great house. She could not understand.... But she did not dare to ask Jasper Slyne for any information, since he had shown her more than once already that he did not intend to tell her any more than he thought fit.

When they finally reached the station they found Mr. Jobling awaiting them there and very anxious over their late arrival.

"We drove round by Grosvenor Square," Slyne told the lawyer nonchalantly. "And—we're in lots of time."

Mr. Jobling looked cross. "Five minutes more would have lost you the train," he remarked somewhat sourly. "And where would Captain Dove and I have been then!"

As it was, however, they found Captain Dove in his berth, sound asleep, although still fully dressed. And, as Slyne ushered Sallie into the double compartment reserved for her and Ambrizette, "Don't go to bed just yet," he begged. "I want to show you something by and by. You'll have lots of time for a long sleep before we arrive."

"All right, Jasper," she agreed. "I'll wait up till you come for me."

When he at length knocked at her door again, Mr. Jobling was still with her. She came out between them into the narrow corridor. Slyne rubbed clear one steamy window to let her see the wintry landscape through which they were travelling at express speed. And Sallie looked out delighted, at the sleeping English countryside as its broad grass-lands and bare brown acres, coverts and coppices, hedgerows and lanes, with here and there a grange or a group of cottages, all still and silent, flashed into sight and so disappeared; until, overlooking them all from a knoll on the near bank of a broad, winding river, there loomed up a most magnificent mansion, embedded, in lordly seclusion, among many gnarled and age-old oaks, with gardens terrace on terrace about it, tall fountains among their empty flower-beds, a moss-grown sun-dial at the edge of a quiet, silver lake.

The moon was shining full on its innumerable windows, so that it seemed to be lighted up from within, although, in reality, all were shuttered and dark. Aloof and very stately it stood on that windless night, an empty palace which came and went in a few moments, wing after wing, with its stabling and courtyards, and still more gardens, all within an endless, ivy-clad encircling wall.

"What place is that?" asked Sallie in an awed tone as soon as the train had rumbled across the bridge.

"That's Justicehall, Lady Josceline,—your English country seat, and one of the finest properties in the Shires," Mr. Jobling informed her before Slyne could speak. "You'll be living there within a few weeks—and forgetting all your old friends!"

Sallie did not sleep much that night. Her brain was far too busy. She could scarcely believe that less than a week had elapsed since she had stepped ashore from the Olive Branch.

Nor could she yet reconcile herself to the fact that her new life must lie amid such scenes as those to which Jasper Slyne had so far introduced her. She had liked Monte Carlo, and Paris, and London as any girl might. The great house in Grosvenor Square she had mistaken for an hotel. But the calmly arrogant grandeur of Justicehall had merely oppressed her. And the idea that she might have to live there did not please her at all. For how could she, a creature of the free air, of sunshine and wind and sea and the world's waste places, be happy immured within that immense edifice, encircled by servants, hemmed in on every side by unaccustomed conventionalities, all as distasteful as new to her. She made up her mind, there and then, that, if she might have any say on that subject, Justicehall should stay empty.

But—would she have any say on that subject, or any other? She did not know. Jasper Slyne had so far told her only so much as he thought fit of what was before her. She lay quite still in her narrow berth, gazing out at the window whose blind she had bidden Ambrizette loose from the catch, a hundred puzzled, helpless questions thronging through her head, till the moon failed her and all was darkness but for the flashes of red or green or yellow light that swept past as the train sped through some wayside station or sleeping town.

Then she too fell asleep at last, and so forgot her difficulties till she awoke again in a new and most wonderful world; a world of gaunt, grey mountains and wide dark moors, white tumbling torrents on hillsides, in deep ravines, forests of stately fir and pine that looked like the masts of ships; a world, moreover, which seemed in some sense familiar and friendly to her.

Day was breaking and Ambrizette was already astir. She had come quietly in and closed the curtains during the night, and was now once more looping them back to let in the first of the sun. Sallie lay for a little longer watching the sunrise warm those enchanted solitudes into a golden semblance of fairy-land.

There was snow on the near mountain-tops that turned from the tint of pigeon-blood rubies to pink, from pink to amber, and so to the purest white. The train was travelling through an extensive plantation of silver birches, amid which a lordly stag, paralysed by its swift approach, stood starkly at bay with a timid hind at its heels. A myriad rabbits were diving madly into the bracken on every side. Above in the blue a belated wild-goose was winging its hasty way to some warmer clime; for there was something more than a hint of hard, black frost in the morning air.

Another station swept past, a trim little place with some picturesque cottages perched on the high ground about it. A marvellous vista of water, a long, winding lake in the midst of the mountains, was visible for a few moments, and then Ambrizette brought in tea.

Twenty minutes later, Sallie was up and dressed for the day, in a short-skirted shooting-suit of Harris tweed, heather-proof stockings and smart ankle-boots. When Slyne knocked and she went out to speak to him, he stood for a moment gazing at her with unbounded gratification, and then, "Gad! Sallie," said he, holding out his hand. "You're her ladyship to the life now. You'll certainly look your part at Loquhariot."

She smiled back at him. He was scarcely less trig than herself in his knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket.

"I hope—It isn't a place like Justicehall, is it, Jasper?" she asked anxiously.

He raised his eyebrows, and laughed, a little surprised.

"Why, scarcely," said he, "from what Jobling tells me. But—didn't you like the look of Justicehall? Well, I hope you won't actually despise Loquhariot, Sallie. 'Be it never so humble,' you know—"