Never a heavy sleeper, Mrs. Lancaster was fully aware of her daughter's entrance before Doris reached her bedside. She affected neither drowsiness nor ignorance of the latter's quest.

"You ought not to have got up so early, Doris," she said. "Why, it's not eight yet. Not that light—the far away one, if you insist. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, I think so. I've had a long sleep." The girl's eyes were shining strangely, and the shadows beneath them were deep; but she did not look ill. "Father is awake now," she said.

"Indeed! I suppose you have come for that packet." Mrs. Lancaster raised herself a little on the pillows. "I suppose, also, you are aware what the packet contains, Doris."

"Yes, mother."

"Is it a gift or a loan to your father?"

"A loan—I hope. Please let me have it—"

"One moment, my dear. Am I right in further supposing that your father intends to pay a particular debt with all this money?"

Doris's head drooped in assent.

"Has it not occurred to you that your father would be treating me very badly if he used all this money for such a purpose?"

"Mother!"

"You fancy I have said something very dreadful, but—listen! Things have gone wrong at Johannesburg. There has been rioting. Mines have been wrecked and ruined. For a long time to come—years, perhaps—your father's income may be next to nothing. What is to become of me? You, of course, have your Mr. Bullard—not so rich as he was; but he is not the sort of man to remain long poor. You had better sit down, Doris. I have kept the newspapers of the last few days from your father."

The girl was clutching the brass rail of the bed. "Do you mean that father is ruined?" she whispered, aghast.

"Not far from it, I'm afraid. Now don't make a fuss. I rely on you to break the news of the mines to him before Mr. Bullard arrives this morning. Mr. Bullard will give him the details, no doubt. Another thing; you must persuade Mr. Bullard to get rid of that debt we have mentioned. He has his own difficulties at present, I should imagine, but he is not the man to be beaten by a sum like twenty-five thousand pounds. We cannot have scandal—disgrace. You have done much for your father already—that I freely admit—but at this crisis you must do more.—My smelling salts are behind you."

Doris had swayed, but she recovered herself, though her face was white and desperate.

"Mother, that money you have—"

"I'm afraid you are going to be shocked, Doris, but I had better tell you at once that the money is mine."

"Yours!" It was a shock, a dreadful shock, and yet Doris had come to her mother's room full of ghastly apprehensions. "Oh, but you can't mean it!"

"My dear girl, can I be franker? Call it anything you like, theft, if you fancy the word; but the money is mine. I decline to go into the gutter for any one."

"But—dear God!—don't you realise what your keeping it will mean to father? Yes, you do! You know too well—"

"I have shown you a way out of that difficulty. Mr. Bullard will do anything you ask—"

"And what am I to say to father?"

"Nothing!—unless you wish to kill him. For Heaven's sake, take a reasonable view of the matter. A year hence your father will probably bless me for what I have done. A thousand a year is always something. As for Mr. Craig, he will have helped even more practically than he thought. Of course, your taste in accepting money from one man while engaged to another is open to question."

With a soft heart-broken cry Doris let go her hold and fell on her knees at the bedside.

"Mother, in the name of all that is right and good, give me back the money. I don't want to—hate you."

Mrs. Lancaster touched a wisp of lace to her eyes, "Really, Doris, you are making it very painful for me, but some day you will see that I was wise. For the present, I would rather die than give up the money. I have no more to say."

In some respects Mrs. Lancaster was a stranger to her daughter, but Doris always knew when her mind was immovable. She knew it now. She rose up from her knees. Out of her deathly face her eyes blazed. Had she spoken then, it would have been to utter an awful thing for any daughter to say to the one who bore her.

"Doris!" exclaimed the woman, shrinking under her scented, exquisitely pure coverings.

The girl threw up her head. "If father goes down," she said bravely, "I go down with him. And I don't think the money will make you forget, mother. There are two sorts of gutters." She turned and went quickly out.

But in the privacy of her own room she fell on the bed, a crushed and broken thing, a creature of despair, writhing, groping in the darkness of an unspeakable horror. If there was a sin unpardonable, surely her own mother had committed it. If there was a bitterness beyond that of death itself, surely she herself was drinking thereof.

Well was it for the mind of Doris Lancaster that she was not left long to herself. A maid tapped and said that Mr. Lancaster was asking for her. She arose immediately and removed the outward signs of misery, telling herself that whatever happened, he must be spared until the last moment; also, the divulging of the disaster on the Rand must be postponed, whether Mr. Bullard liked it or no. For the present she had to give her father his breakfast and tell him of Alan's visit. She prayed Heaven for a cheerful countenance.

Mr. Lancaster had rested well and was looking better, but anxious.

"You didn't come in to see me last night, after all," he said.

"Mother told me you were asleep, so I didn't disturb you—and I was unusually tired, dear."

"But he came?"

"Oh, yes. Alan came, and he's coming again this evening, when he hopes to see you."

"Aren't you well, Doris? You shivered just now. … What did he say?"

"Nothing that wasn't kind, father. He wants you to go to Grey House for a change the moment you feel able for the journey. He wants us all to go. What better news can I give you than that, dear?"

Lancaster's eyes grew moist. "God bless the boy for shewing that he bears me no ill-will," he said. "What did he talk about?"

"It was a very short visit last night," she replied, "but, as I told you, he is coming again to-night. You think you will be able to see him?"

"I shall have no peace till I can thank him for his big heart…. Doris,
I wish you had not promised Bullard—"

"Oh, hush! We agreed not to speak of that."

He sighed heavily. "What a woeful mess I've made of my life; and I've had so many chances, my dear, that I dare not hope for one more. And I don't blame anybody but myself—"

"Dear, don't think of it that way. You have simply been deceived in people, or, at least, in one person."

"Your mother made me believe in him, and certainly he knew how to make money. No, I don't blame your mother, Doris. I've been a disappointment to her—"

"Father, I can't bear your talking so, for I believe in you with all my heart. And think of Alan Craig, and Teddy France, too—oh, they would do anything for you!"

He shook his head, smiling very faintly. Then, suddenly, he became grave and a strange look—strange because unfamiliar—dawned.

"Doris, give me your hand. Will you say again that you believe in me?"

"I believe in you with all my heart," she answered, striving for control.

"Then—then you are not going to marry Bullard."

"Oh, please—"

"You and I," he went on, "are both longing, dying for freedom, and I know of a way out. Doris, will you believe in me, continue to desire me for your father, though I bring ruin and shame on you? Answer me!"

"Nothing could change me, dear."

"Then I will take the way out wherever it may lead, for prison itself would be freedom to me, and marriage with Bullard would be worse than prison to you. Doris, Lord Caradale, the chairman of the Syndicate, arrives from America on Tuesday. I will tell him the truth—"

She caught him in her arms. "No—no—not that," she sobbed. "He is a hard, cruel man; he—"

"It is the one way to freedom for us both. For my own poor sake, my girl, don't seek to weaken my resolve. I would like to do the right thing once before I die." He kissed her. "Now leave me, and don't fret. Don't let any one come to me for an hour or two."

Lest she should break down utterly, Doris obeyed. The thing had got beyond her strength physical and mental. She could have cried aloud for help. And in a sense she did, for she went to the telephone and rang up Teddy France at the Midland Hotel.

"Can you meet me at the Queen's Road Tube in half an hour?" she asked.

"Certainly. I'll start now," said Teddy, who had not breakfasted. Alan was not yet downstairs. "Something wrong, Doris?"

"Just come, please. Good-bye."

He was there before her, his heart aching.

What had happened that she could not tell to Alan? Before long he knew. She told him all as they walked in Kensington Gardens, in the brilliant sunshine. It seemed to Teddy far more horrible than the gruesome business in the fog of twelve hours ago.

"And you feel there is no hope of inducing Mrs. Lancaster to—to change?" he said at last. Knowing Mrs. Lancaster as he did, he recognised the futility of the question.

"If you don't mind, Teddy," she answered, "we won't speak about that again. The shame of it sickens me. But what about—Alan? He and father will meet tonight. I don't for a moment imagine that Alan will mention the money, but naturally he will think it very strange if father doesn't. And, oh! how can I explain to Alan? It's too dreadful!"

"Alan," he said, "would only be sorry—as sorry as I am. But, Doris, it isn't to-night yet."

"You mean that I have time to—to see Mr. Bullard? He is coming to the house this morning—may be there now—and I don't want him to get near father. Yes," she said, in a lifeless voice, "I will speak to him—plead with him, if necessary—"

"No, you shan't!" said Teddy, who doubted very much whether Mr. Bullard would reach Earl's Gate that morning. The inquest was at noon.

"It's the only way out. Father must not be allowed to trust himself to the tender mercies of Lord Caradale next week. I know Lord Caradale. He doesn't mind how money is made; but he does mind how it is lost. Oh, Teddy, don't you think father has suffered enough?"

"More than enough—and so has his daughter." Teddy gritted his teeth.
Every moment this girl grew dearer; every moment she seemed further away.
"Doris," he went on, "I want your promise that you will do nothing at all
till I see you again. Should Bullard come to the house, keep him from Mr.
Lancaster, but tell him nothing. Meet me here again at three o'clock."
Gently he stopped her questions. "And forgive my leaving you at once.
Don't hope too much, dear, but don't altogether despair. There's just a
chance that there may be another way out."

The hour that followed was the most thronged of this young man's life. Fortunately he had left a note for Alan, explaining his sudden departure on the score of some forgotten business which had to be overtaken before the inquest, so he was free to go direct to a certain legal office in the city. As for Doris, she went home in that numb condition of mind and spirit which comes upon some of us while we wait for a great surgeon's verdict. Her mother informed her that Mr. Bullard had telephoned, postponing his call till the afternoon, also that she had received and accepted Mr. Craig's invitation to Grey House.

"We shall travel on Tuesday, Doris, so you must see that your father has no relapse."

Doris turned away without answering. Tuesday! That was a long, long way off—in another life, it seemed.