With one accord they peered up the dim well of the staircase. On the floor above, leaning over the rail, one hand clutching an army revolver, was a dishevelled young man, his hair tousled, his eyes swollen with sleep. He was clad in orange-striped silk pyjamas open at the neck, and even as he scowled darkly on the intruders below he stifled a capacious yawn. Although his face was in shadow there seemed something familiar about him. However, before anything had been said on either side, the belligerence faded from the young man's manner, his attitude altered, and he gave vent to a lazy chuckle, as with his free hand he fastened the top button of his sleeping attire and smoothed back his hair.

"Good God, I beg your pardon," he exclaimed. "I'd no idea; I thought it was burglars."

In a flash Esther saw that it was Captain Holliday. Roger also recognised him, and gave a nod, needlessly curt, Esther thought. After all, there was no good being indignant with the man for using profanity a moment ago when he could have had no knowledge that there was a woman present.

"We didn't dream anybody was here," Esther explained quickly. "We came to fetch something I left behind. I had a key, so we let ourselves in."

"Oh, I see! I woke up wondering who the hell was roaming about down there. I knew it couldn't be Jacques; he's off for a couple of days. I just roused up sufficiently to get my gun." He tossed the revolver lightly into the air and caught it again. "I'm hanging out here looking after things while Sartorius is away," he added, running his fingers over his unshaven chin.

"Well, we won't interrupt your siesta any longer," Roger returned, moving towards the front door and drawing Esther with him.

"Siesta! That's a good one. This is my first appearance to-day, old man. I say, if you hold on a minute, I'll shake you up a side-car. I feel inclined for one myself."

"No, thanks."

"No?" and the captain yawned again. "Then cheerio!"

The door slammed behind them, they descended the steps and got into the car without speaking. Esther could not see why her companion appeared to be so much annoyed. She stole a glance at him, and saw that his mouth had taken on a grim line that made him more than ever like his father, while his eyes were bleak and steely. An Englishman might have said that this was the Lancashire coming out in him.

"Think of anyone being able to sleep like that!" she ventured, laughing a little. "Why, it's nearly five o'clock. He must have been up all night."

She had not meant to say exactly that, on account of what was in her secret thoughts, but she was glad to see her friend's severe expression relax a little.

"Ah, that's the advantage of a care-free life," he remarked lightly.

"But doesn't he ever do anything?—any work, I mean?"

"Not that I know of, but I lost track of him after the war and only ran into him again about a year ago."

"He was in the air service, wasn't he?"

"Yes; he was at Marlborough with my brother, and the two of them went into the Flying Corps together as boys of eighteen. Malcolm was killed, and Arthur nearly so—he was in five or six bad smashes. He always had plenty of courage, a fine record for bravery. The old man has never forgotten that, nor the fact that he was Malcolm's friend."

"So that's how you came to know him?" mused Esther reflectively. "I'm glad to find out. He interests me rather."

"Does he, indeed!"

She was gazing thoughtfully at the road ahead, oblivious of the quick, faintly suspicious glance he bent upon her.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Merely, I suppose, because he is a new type for me. He's not in the least what I should ever have considered a lady's man, much too hard and indifferent, and yet I can see that he is extremely attractive."

"So you can see that, can you?"

"Oh, certainly! I can feel his charm myself, in a sort of way."

She failed to add that Holliday was not the style of man she particularly admired, partly because she was too busy thinking of Lady Clifford and the very evident fascination he possessed for her. She did not realise how long she sat absorbed in her speculations, and still less had she any idea that the man beside her was for the second time wondering if she, too, had fallen under the casual Arthur's spell, and reflecting regretfully that he could not well disillusion her without appearing caddish.

"It seems a bit of a come-down for him to be living in this comparative obscurity," he observed, half to himself. "I daresay he's comfortable enough, still, after the Ritzes and the Carltons…"

"I heard him tell the doctor a fortnight ago that he was absolutely stony, so I suppose that accounts for it. He was going to sell his car."

"Oh, I see!"

Indeed, Roger saw more than he would have cared to disclose. He felt nearly sure now of what he had at first only dimly suspected, namely, that ThÉrÈse had been supplying Arthur with funds. He could comprehend now his stepmother's rage at being summarily cut down, as clearly as he understood the reasons back of Holliday's projected removal to the Argentine. The conclusions he was coming to appeared to him sordid and humiliating. He hoped his father had no suspicion of the truth.

They had reached the Villa Firenze; the car purred up the gravel drive under the curving branches of the acacias.

"I'm glad you asked me to come," Esther said sincerely as she alighted.
"I feel like another person."

"So do I."

He looked at her gravely and for a longer space than the occasion demanded. Again there was the sense of pleasant confusion within her as she raced up the stairs to her room, a smile played about her lips, her pulse beat quickly. She had forgotten the matter that had been in her thoughts ever since she had entered the doctor's dining-room, but once she had closed her door it came back to her. That cigarette-tip with its scarlet edge uncurled—had her companion associated it with anyone in particular? She wondered. Opening her bag, she shook out the tiny hairpin she had picked up off the floor. So few hairpins were used at all these days of shingled heads … yet she had recently seen one identical with this. It was Lady Clifford who used it to anchor into position her big wavy lock of hair.

"She was there last night, I am sure of it," Esther said to herself as she threw off her hat and coat. "It was quite safe, Jacques was away. I'm the only person who knows, and that by the merest accident…. Well, it's just as well for her it isn't some malicious person. She's all right in my hands."

How odd it seemed to think that she, a stranger, should know more about Lady Clifford than her own family! Or perhaps it wasn't so strange after all. One's family was often the last to know things, its ignorance was proverbial. She felt a sudden wave of pity for the old man, lying ill and unsuspecting.

When she slipped back into Sir Charles's room, she found Miss Clifford in a chair by the window, knitting.

"He's just waked up," she said, rising and coming towards her. "You've had a good nap, haven't you, Charlie?"

"Oh, yes, once I managed to get to sleep. ThÉrÈse would keep coming in and fidgeting around my pillow; she can't seem to let me alone."

"She does so want to be useful, poor child," the old lady made excuse gently. "You can't blame her if she doesn't know much about nursing. I finally insisted on her going and lying down. I thought she looked very tired, as though she hadn't slept well."

Esther felt annoyed, particularly after what the doctor had said about trying to keep Lady Clifford out of the room.

"I hope I haven't stayed out too long," she said with compunction, glancing at her watch.

"Not a bit of it. You must get fresh air. I hope you'll go often with my nephew; it is good for him too. I'll go and get my tea now. You'll be wanting yours, too, no doubt," and with a kindly pat on Esther's shoulder she quitted the room.

"Is my son coming in after tea, nurse?" inquired the old man feebly.

"Yes, in a few minutes."

"I have something I want to say to him. Will you leave us alone?"

"Of course," she promised, smiling.

Sir Charles closed his eyes, then spoke without opening them:

"Where's Lady Clifford?"

"I expects she's still lying down, Sir Charles, but I'm not sure.
Would you like to see her?"

"No, no, not at all, not at all. I'd like to speak to my son alone; I don't want her to interrupt us."

"I'll see to it, Sir Charles; don't worry."

He appeared satisfied. When some minutes later Roger came in, Esther left him with his father, merely cautioning him against staying too long. Roger watched her till the door had closed behind her, then he drew a chair beside the bed. He saw that the old man was fumbling ineffectually in the effort to get at something under his pillow.

"Here, I'll do that for you," Roger said, coming to his aid. "What is it, anyhow?"

"Only that copy of my will. I want you to put it away again. No good leaving it about for people to pry into."

Roger smiled at the invalid's native cautiousness. He had to lift his head before he was able to extract the document, planted under the very centre of the pillow.

"Pretty safe there, eh?" Sir Charles commented with a gleam of humour. "Just as well, just as well. Take it now and lock it up, then come back. I've something to say to you."

When Roger returned, he had several minutes to wait before his father spoke again. The ill man seemed to be husbanding his resources as well as considering how best to begin. At last he moistened his dry lips and made an effort.

"You all of you assume I'm going to get well of this," he stated casually.

"Get well? Of course you are!"

"I'm not so sure. Not that it bothers me. I've had my day. Only, in case I do peg out, it seems fair to tell you beforehand about a slight alteration I have seen fit to make in my will."

"Yes, what is it?"

The old man drew a deep breath, then continued, pausing between sentences.

"It has nothing to do with the disposition of the property. That remains the same. Only, I have appointed you as executor and a sort of trustee of the whole estate."

"Me!"

Utterly unprepared for this information, his son regarded him in dismay.

"Why not?"

Roger could think of nothing to say. He was filled with chagrin, but afraid to voice his reasons for objecting.

"It struck me," went on Sir Charles in a laboured manner, "that as ThÉrÈse is a young woman, the trustee ought to be a young man. An old one might not have so much understanding."

"Perhaps not, but why me? Wouldn't it be better to choose someone outside the family?"

"No, I don't think so. Who outside the family would take enough interest? Besides, frankly, I don't know any other young man whose judgment I'd trust as I would yours."

Great as was the compliment, it did not mitigate for Roger the onerous nature of the responsibility.

"Are you quite sure it's necessary?" he asked unhappily.

"Quite. I could not rest easy unless I had placed what I have to leave in the hands of a competent man of business. You know it as well as I do, ThÉrÈse needs looking after."

Roger rose and walked to the window, where he stood for several seconds staring out, unable to bring himself to make a suitable comment. There was but one thing he felt inclined to say, which was, "Oh, give her the usual amount for a widow, and let her go to hell!" which, of course, wouldn't do. Why had his father forced this irksome duty upon him? To be forcibly kept in contact with his stepmother, to be compelled to advise her, overlook her expenditures—it was intolerable. At all cost he felt he must get out of it—that is, at all cost save that of exciting and distressing his father. Ah, that was the difficulty! How could he refuse without giving the old man some hint of his feelings regarding ThÉrÈse?

"Surely," he said at last, with great restraint, "such a trusteeship isn't necessary. ThÉrÈse is not a child; she ought to be capable of managing her own affairs."

Sir Charles's face assumed an expression of obstinacy that Roger knew well.

"Where money is concerned, ThÉrÈse is a fool. She has no judgment whatever, money drips through her fingers. I've no intention of allowing her to fritter away the property it has taken me a lifetime to get together. You will find I have tied it up pretty securely. She won't be able to throw it away, she won't be at liberty to do anything—I repeat, anything—without your full knowledge and consent."

He had spoken with such emphasis that he closed his eyes with an expression of great lassitude.

"I don't like it," protested Roger, helpless in the face of his father's iron determination; "it's too much responsibility."

"Not too much," retorted his father calmly.

"And besides, you know yourself that ThÉrÈse won't like it, either.
She—she may resent it very deeply."

There was a pause, then the heavy eyebrows went up with a slightly ironical movement.

"Don't trouble your head about ThÉrÈse; leave her to me."

There was nothing to be done; any further objection might cause the old man serious annoyance. Roger's only hope lay in waiting till his father was well, when, perhaps, he might renew the argument. Accordingly he gave in with a good grace.

"Oh, very well, there's no more to be said about it. By the way, have you told ThÉrÈse?"

"Not yet. I wanted to speak to you first. But I shall broach the subject to her … when I feel equal to it."

The dry humour in this last phrase caused Roger to wonder if, after all, his father was quite as blind as he thought him. Did he suspect the baccarat story? Was this a diabolical plan for getting even? There was no way of knowing; the old chap would keep his counsel till the last gasp. Yet, as Roger gazed on the mask-like face, he thought that his father's decision constituted a delicate and appropriate revenge for many a secret indignity.

He himself had no wish to score off ThÉrÈse; his sole desire was to leave her strictly alone. It was true that the very perfume she used had become offensive to him—he fancied he could smell it now about the covers of the bed, which showed how she was getting on his nerves—but certainly he wished her no harm.

He was silent and thoughtful when a few minutes later he joined his aunt and Esther in the adjoining room. He had overcome his first avoidance of the boudoir, yet he still disliked the hint of incense that clung to its atmosphere. He drew a breath of slight distaste as he sank down on the pale blue chaise-longue and mechanically drew out his cigarette-case, only to find it empty.

"There are cigarettes on the table in that box, if you want to smoke," suggested his aunt.

He picked up the box, made of turquoise-blue shagreen, and opened it. There were three compartments within, holding three kinds of cigarettes. In the middle one was a single cigarette with a scarlet tip and a scarlet monogram—T. C. He lifted it between his thumb and finger and examined it with a slight frown.

"That's one of ThÉrÈse's own special kind," observed his aunt placidly.
"She has them made for her. They're scented with amber."

He let the little object fall and selected a plain cigarette. Then as he lit it, his eyes encountered for a fleeting instant the clear gaze of the nurse. Immediately she looked away and, rising, perhaps too hurriedly, left the room. However, that single glance had been sufficient to tell Roger what was in her thoughts.

His first impulse was one of regret. He felt a poignant humiliation to think that this young girl, a stranger in the house, should be aware of a thing of that kind concerning his father's wife. Yet, oddly enough, a second later, he realised that he no longer regarded Esther as a stranger. He felt as though he had known her for years; she had mysteriously become something quite personal. Strange, how the sharing of a secret knowledge can change a relationship.

When Esther opened the door into the bedroom, she was just in time to see Lady Clifford bending over the ill man, with one hand lifting up his head, while with the other she turned over the pillow beneath it.