On the morning of that day, while Jim Airth, braced with a new resolve and a fresh outlook on life, was speeding up from Cornwall, Lady Ingleby sat beneath the scarlet chestnuts, watching Ronald and Billy play tennis.

They had entered for a tournament, and discovered that they required constant practice such as, apparently, could only be obtained at Shenstone. In reality they came over so frequently in honest-hearted trouble and anxiety over their friend, of whose unexpected sorrow they chanced to be the sole confidants. Lady Ingleby refused herself to all other visitors. In the trying uncertainty of these few weeks while Jim Airth was still in England, she dreaded questions or comments. To Jane Dalmain she had written the whole truth. The Dalmains were at Worcester, attending a musical festival in that noblest of English cathedrals; but they expected soon to return to Overdene, when Jane had promised to come to her.

Meanwhile Ronald and Billy turned up often, doing their valiant best to be cheerful; but Myra’s fragile look, and large pathetic eyes, alarmed and horrified them. Obviously things had gone more hopelessly wrong than they had anticipated. They had known at once that Airth would not marry Lady Ingleby; but it had never occurred to them that Lady Ingleby would still wish to marry Airth. Ronald stoutly denied that this was the case; but Billy affirmed it, though refusing to give reasons.

Ronald had never succeeded in extorting from Billy one word of what had taken place when he had told Lady Ingleby that Jim Airth was the man.

“If you wanted to know how she took it, you should have told her yourself,” said Billy. “And it will be a saving of useless trouble, Ron, if you never ask me again.”

Thus the days went by; and, though she always seemed gently pleased to see them both, no possible opening had been given to Ronald for assuming the rÔle of manly comforter.

“I shall give it up,” said Ronnie at last, in bitterness of spirit; “I tell you, I shall give it up; and marry the duchess!”

“Don’t be profane,” counselled Billy. “It would be more to the point to find Airth, and explain to him, in carefully chosen language, that letting Lady Ingleby die of a broken heart will not atone for blowing up her husband. I always knew our news would make no difference, from the moment I saw her go quite pink when she told us his name. She never went pink over Ingleby, you bet! I didn’t know they could do it, after twenty.”

“Much you know, then!” ejaculated Ronnie, scornfully. “I’ve seen the duchess go pink.”

“Scarlet, you mean,” amended Billy. “So have I, old chap; but that’s another pair o’ boots, as you very well know.”

“Oh, don’t be vulgar,” sighed Ronnie, wearily. “Let’s cut the whole thing and go to town. Henley begins to-morrow.”

But next day they turned up at Shenstone, earlier than usual.

And that morning, Lady Ingleby was feeling strangely restful and at peace; not with any expectations of future happiness; but resigned to the inevitable; and less apart from Jim Airth. She had fallen asleep the night before beset by haunting memories of Cornwall and of their climb up the cliff. At midnight she had awakened with a start, fancying herself on the ledge, and feeling that she was falling. But instantly Jim Airth’s arms seemed to enfold her; she felt herself drawn into safety; then that exquisite sense of strength and rest was hers once more.

So vivid had been the dream, that its effect remained with her when she rose. Thus she sat watching the tennis with a little smile of content on her sweet face.

“She is beginning to forget,” thought Ronnie, exultant. “My ’vantage!” he shouted significantly to Billy, over the net.

“Deuce!” responded Billy, smashing down the ball with unnecessary violence.

“No!” cried Ronnie. “Outside, my boy! Game and a ‘love’ set to me!”

“Stay to lunch, boys,” said Lady Ingleby, as the gong sounded; and they all three went gaily into the house.

As they passed through the hall afterwards, their motor stood at the door; so they bade her good-bye, and turned to find their rackets.

At that moment they heard the sharp ting of a bicycle bell. A boy had ridden up with a telegram. Groatley, waiting to see them off, took it; picked up a silver salver from the hall table, and followed Lady Ingleby to her sitting-room.

There seemed so sudden a silence in the house, that Ronald and Billy with one accord stood listening.

“Twenty minutes to two,” said Billy, glancing at the clock. “Spirits are walking.”

The next moment a cry rang out from Lady Ingleby’s sitting-room—a cry of such mingled bewilderment, wonder, and relief, that they looked at one another in amazement. Then without waiting to question or consider, they hastened to her.

Lady Ingleby was standing in the middle of the room, an open telegram in her hand.

“Jim,” she was saying; “Oh, Jim!”

Her face was so transfigured by thankfulness and joy, that neither Ronald nor Billy could frame a question. They merely gazed at her.

“Oh, Billy! Oh, Ronald!” she said, “He didn’t do it! Oh think what this will mean to Jim Airth. Stop the boy! Quick! Bring me a telegram form. I must send for him at once.... Oh, Jim, Jim!.... He said he would give his life for the relief of the moment when some one should step into the tent and tell him he had not done it; and now I shall be that ‘some one’!.... Oh, how do you spell ‘Piccadilly’.... Please call Groatley. If we lose no time, he may catch the three o’clock express.... Groatley, tell the boy to take this telegram and have it sent off immediately. Give him half-a-crown, and say he may keep the change.... Now boys.... Shut the door!”

The whirlwind of excitement was succeeded by sudden stillness. Lady Ingleby sank upon the sofa, burying her face for a moment in the cushions.

In the silence they heard the telegraph boy disappearing rapidly into the distance, ringing his bell a very unnecessary number of times. When it could be heard no longer, Lady Ingleby lifted her head.

“Michael is alive,” she said.

“Great Scot!” exclaimed Ronnie, and took a step forward.

Billy made no sound, but he turned very white; backed to the door, and leaned against it for support.

“Think what it means to Jim Airth!” said Lady Ingleby. “Think of the despair and misery through which he passed; and, after all, he had not done it.”

“May we see?” asked Ronald eagerly, holding out his hand for the telegram.

Billy licked his dry lips, but no sound would come.

“Read it,” said Myra.

Ronald took the telegram and read it aloud.

“Great Scot!” said Ronnie again.

Billy said nothing; but his eyes never left Lady Ingleby’s radiant face.

“Think what it will mean to Jim Airth,” she repeated.

“Er—yes,” said Ronnie. “It considerably changes the situation—for him. What does ‘Veritas’ mean?”

“That,” replied Lady Ingleby “is our private code, Michael’s and mine. My mother once wired to me in Michael’s name, and to Michael in mine—dear mamma occasionally does eccentric things—and it made complications. Michael was very much annoyed; and after that we took to signing our telegrams ‘Veritas,’ which means: ‘This is really from me.’”

“Just think!” said Ronnie. “He, a prisoner; and we, all marching away! But I remember now, we always suspected prisoners had been taken at Targai. And positive proofs of Lord Ingleby’s death were difficult to—well, don’t you know—to find. I mean—there couldn’t be a funeral. We had to conclude it, because we believed him to have been right inside the tunnel. He must have got clear after all, before Airth sent the flash, and getting in with the first rush, been unable to return. Of course he has reached Cairo with no money and no means of getting home. And the chaps who helped him, will stick to him like leeches till they get their pay. What shall you do about cabling?”

Lady Ingleby seemed to collect her thoughts with difficulty.

“Of course the money must be sent—and sent at once,” she said. “Oh, Ronnie, could you go up to town about it, for me? I would give you a cheque, and a note to my bankers; they will know how to cable it through. Could you, Ronnie? Michael must not be kept waiting; yet I must stay here to tell Jim. It never struck me that I might have gone up to town myself; and now I have wired to Jim to come down here. Oh, my dear Ronnie, could you?”

“Of course I could,” said Ronald, cheerfully. “The motor is at the door. I can catch the two-thirty, if you write the note at once. No need for a cheque. Just write a few lines authorising your bankers to send out the money; I will see them personally; explain the whole thing, and hurry them up. The money shall be in Cairo to-night, if possible.”

Lady Ingleby went to her davenport.

No sound broke the stillness save the rapid scratching of her pen.

Then Billy spoke. “I will come with you,” he said, hoarsely.

“Why do that?” objected Ronald. “You may as well go on in the motor to Overdene, and tell them there.”

“I am going to town,” said Billy, decidedly. Then he walked over to where the telegram still lay on the table. “May I copy this?” he asked of Lady Ingleby.

“Do,” she said, without looking round.

“And Ronnie—you take the original to show them at the bank. Ah, no! I must keep that for Jim. Here is paper. Make two copies, Billy.”

Billy had already copied the message into his pocket-book. With shaking fingers he copied it again, handing the sheet to Ronald, without looking at him.

The note written, Lady Ingleby rose.

“Thank you, Ronald,” she said. “Thank you, more than I can say. I think you will catch the train. And good-bye, Billy.”

But Billy was already in the motor.