Madeline never felt so helpless or friendless as when she left with the Tregonys for the South of France. She had no one to advise her, no one to whom she could turn for a word of counsel. She wished a thousand times that her father had never made Sir Charles her trustee and guardian. He did so with the best intentions, no doubt. He was proud of the distant relationship, flattered by the Baronet's attention, and enamoured of the prospect for his only child; but for her it had meant disillusion and disappointment.

She had not courage enough to tell Sir Charles and Gervase what she had discovered. The Baronet almost over-awed her at times, while the Captain was possessed of a dogged tenacity and determination that were anything but easy to deal with. She felt almost like a bird in a cage—a cage into which she had deliberately walked, or had been cleverly lured. To all appearances she was free, and yet in a very real sense she was a prisoner. The meshes of the net had been so deftly and so silently woven round her, that she was not conscious of the fact until the last loophole was closed.

What could she do now? To whom could she go? There was the old solicitor in New York City, but there was no time to write to him and get an answer back. Her step-mother was travelling from place to place, and might be on the Pacific slope for all she knew, or in the South Seas, or Japan. She had a good many friends—rich and influential people in the States—but they were often on the wing, and they might be "doing Europe" or enjoying themselves in London or Paris.

Besides, how could she explain the peculiarities of the position in which she found herself, and if she tried to explain she questioned if she would get any sympathy? She would have to bide her time till she was of age, and trust in Providence for the rest.

She took away with her nearly everything she possessed that was of any value, for she had made up her mind never to return to Trewinion Hall, if there was any possibility of avoiding it, and that something would turn up she had the greatest confidence. Youth is ever optimistic, and Madeline could never look the dark side of things for very long together.

She had only one regret in leaving Cornwall, and that was that in all probability she would never see Rufus Sterne again. Since her interview with Micah Martin, and the confession she had wrung from Tim Polgarrow, her thoughts, of necessity, had turned in his direction, and her strongest sympathies had gone out to him afresh. She knew now that he was a much wronged man. Moreover, she could never forget what he had done for her, and the memory of what he had suffered on her account would remain with her to the last.

Still, life was made up of meetings and partings. We pass each other like ships in the night, or walk side by side for a mile or two, and then drift in different directions. Rufus Sterne would forget her as she in time might forget him. He would win his way in spite of opposition and misrepresentation, for he was strong and clever, and such men nearly always came into their own in the long run.

She looked out for him on the morning they drove away from the Hall. She would have given almost anything for even a smile of recognition, but it was not to be. With a little sigh she resigned herself to the inevitable, and resolved that she would extract as much pleasure out of the tour as possible.

They spent only one night in London, and stayed at the Charing Cross Hotel for the sake of convenience. In Paris they remained three or four days. Madeline would gladly have remained longer, but Gervase was anxious to push forward to a sunnier clime. The cold, he declared, got into his bones, and he would have no pleasure of life until he found himself in a more genial climate.

At Nice they found letters waiting them which had been forwarded, and a copy of the local paper which Sir Charles had ordered to be sent every week direct from the office. For a couple of days they rested from the fatigues of the journey, and then began to make the usual excursions. Gervase, as might have been expected, was early bitten by the fascinations of Monte Carlo, and took to running over by train most days to see the play.

Madeline was extremely grateful to be rid of his company. Not that he was obtrusive in his attentions, for on the whole he was playing his part with great tact and circumspection. But she had learned to mistrust him and despise him. Hence, the less she saw of him the happier she felt.

Time slipped away very pleasantly on the whole. Sir Charles did everything possible to make her visit to the Riviera an enjoyable one. Indeed, he played the part of prospective father-in-law with great skill, and now and then threw out a sly hint about her cruelty in not putting poor Gervase out of his misery. But Madeline was in no humour to take hints, and Sir Charles often turned away with a look of disappointment on his face.

Beryl talked to Madeline one evening with tears in her eyes.

"I'm sure Gervase spends more time in the Casino than he ought to do," she said, reproachfully; "and if he does, whose fault is it, Madeline?"

"His own fault, I should say," she answered, sharply. "He's surely old enough to know what is good for himself?"

"But people who are labouring under some great disappointment, or are tortured by some secret grief, sometimes gamble merely to forget their trouble."

"Then they are very foolish."

"You do not know, Madeline. You have never had any bitter disappointment. You have the world at your feet. You are an heiress, and will have millions when you come of age."

"Is that so?" she asked, innocently.

"Of course it is so!" she answered. "Why do you question me in that way? One might think you did not know how rich you are. But I do not think, for all that, your money gives you any right to treat Gervase badly."

"Beryl!" Madeline said, indignantly. "Do you know what you are saying?"

"I hope I am not rude, Madeline," was the quiet answer. "But Gervase is my brother, and I am very proud of him, and it cuts me to the heart to see him suffer."

"I do not think he is suffering at all," Madeline replied. "Indeed, he seems in very good spirits."

"That is all put on, Madeline, as you ought to know. Gervase is deeply, passionately attached to you. He came home from India hoping and expecting to marry you. He thought everything was settled. Cannot you imagine how hurt and humiliated he must feel?"

"I do not see why. We were not engaged."

"Not formally, perhaps, but it was your father's wish. We were all agreeable, because Gervase seemed devoted to you. You seemed wonderfully pleased with the idea when you first came to Trewinion; and, after all, it is no small thing to marry a man with Gervase's prospects."

"Marriage is a serious thing, Beryl," Madeline said, gently. "When I met Gervase first I was only a school girl. I did not know my own mind. I own he attracted me greatly, and all the time he was away I cherished, and almost worshipped, an ideal——"

"But surely Gervase has realised your ideal?" Beryl questioned. "He may not be as handsome as some men, but think how brave he is, how self-sacrificing, how devoted! He would almost lay down his life for you!"

"I don't want any man to do that," Madeline said, quietly.

"But surely such devotion as his is deserving of some recompense? He has waited patiently for you week after week, and month after month, and I am sure your coldness is driving him to the gaming-tables."

"Would you have me marry him, Beryl, if I do not love him?"

"Oh, you can love him well enough if you try, unless—unless——"

"Unless what, Beryl?"

"Oh, unless you have given way to some romantic nonsense about another man!"

"What do you mean by that?" Madeline asked, raising her eyebrows slightly.

"You know well enough what I mean, Madeline; so you need not pretend."

"I am not pretending. Besides, it is not fair to fling out mere hints that may mean a great deal, or may mean nothing at all."

"Oh, I am not blaming you very much. It was only natural, perhaps, that he should take your fancy for a moment."

"That who should take my fancy?"

"Why, the young man who saved your life, of course. You knew nothing about him, and there is no denying that he is very good-looking. But you have discovered his true character since."

"I have, Beryl."

"He pretended, too, to have made a discovery and induced, it is said, a number of people to lend him their savings, so that he might develop it, and now that is gone to smash. I pity the people he has swindled."

"Who said it had gone to smash?" Madeline questioned eagerly.

"It's in the St. Gaved Express that came by post last evening."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. There is quite a long paragraph about it. Besides, I heard father talking to mother about it last evening."

"I wish I could see the paper. Where can I find it?"

"I will run and fetch it for you if you like? But it is quite true, what I have told you."

Beryl watched Madeline's face with great interest while she read, but it revealed nothing to her. Madeline was conscious that Beryl's eyes were upon her, and so held herself resolutely in check. Not for the world would she betray what she felt.

The St. Gaved Express was printed and published mainly in the interests of the landed and moneyed classes. Its politics were those of the people who held the shares. Its comments on local matters were coloured by its political views. Its snobbery was beyond dispute.

Rufus Sterne received scant courtesy at its hands. He had been heard to say that he believed in the government of the people by the people, for the people. That was quite sufficient for the Express. Politically he was a dangerous character—a little Englander and a pro-foreigner.

When it became known that Rufus had failed, that he had been forestalled with his invention, the Express openly rejoiced. Such unpatriotic characters did not deserve to succeed. It hinted that there was a rough and ready justice in the world that dealt out to men the measure of their deserts—which, being interpreted, meant, that to those who had was given, and from those who had not was taken away even what they had.

It further hinted its hope that the dupes of what was little less than a public fraud would do their duty to the public, to themselves, and to the ingenious young gentleman whose exposure was now pretty well complete.

Madeline folded the paper without a word and handed it back to Beryl.

"I should think you feel sorry now that you ever spoke to him," Beryl said, after a long pause.

"There are many things we feel sorry for when it is too late," she answered, quietly, then turned and walked slowly out of the room.

She had not thought much of Rufus for several weeks. She never expected to see him again. He had come into her life for a few months and passed out again, and the sooner she forgot him the better.

But this story of his failure with the cutting comments and insinuations of the Express called out her sympathies afresh, and in larger measure than ever. She did not think the less of him because he had not succeeded. He had not laboured at an invention that was useless. His failure was not due to the worthlessness of his idea, but simply to the fact that another man had got in before him.

"Oh! I am sorry," she said to herself, when she got to her own room. "How terribly disappointed he will feel. It will seem as though everything is against him, and he had staked his all on the enterprise."

Once or twice she was strongly tempted to sit down and write him a friendly letter of sympathy. But she could not summon up quite sufficient courage. If she had cared less for him she would have been less sensitive. Beryl had just told her that she had been carried away by a foolish and romantic attachment, or words to that effect, and it would never do to give colour and substance to the insinuation. She must keep her self-respect whatever happened.

For several days Rufus was more frequently in her thoughts than was good for her peace of mind. She pictured his disappointment, his helplessness, his despair. She saw him in imagination wandering out on the cliffs alone, with knitted brows and troubled face. She wondered what he would do. She knew he had staked his all—though how much that "all" meant she never guessed—would it be possible for him to rise above this last calamity that had overtaken him, or would he go down in the general crash and ruin, and never be heard of again?

He had ability, she knew, and energy and determination; but so had many another man who had absolutely failed. No man could do the impossible. Bricks could not be made without clay. Circumstances were sometimes stronger than the strongest.

Rufus Sterne was not only penniless, but in debt. The money he had borrowed had gone with his own, and how was it possible in a sleepy little place like St. Gaved to retrieve his position? She wished she could help him. The beginning of his misfortunes seemed to be associated with her. His broken leg was entirely due to her adventurousness, while the loss of his reputation was the outcome of her friendliness to him. Try as she would she could never wholly dissociate herself from him. She was irretrievably mixed up with his success or failure.

She did her best to appear cheerful and unconcerned before the Tregonys. Beryl informed her father that Madeline had seen the account in the paper of Sterne's failure, and had manifested not the slightest interest in the matter.

"Did she say nothing at all?" Sir Charles questioned.

"Scarcely a word."

"And did you say nothing?"

"I did suggest that I thought she would feel sorry now she had ever spoken to him."

"And what did she reply?"

"Oh, she just said, 'There are many things we feel sorry for when it is too late,' and walked out of the room."

"She never saw him after the police court affair, I think."

"I am sure she never did, father."

"So that this will pretty well complete the disillusionment."

"If she ever had any illusions."

"I am afraid she had, Beryl, I'm afraid she had. That was a most unfortunate adventure on the cliffs—most unfortunate," and Sir Charles turned again to the paper he had been reading.

Had the Tregonys been close observers they might have detected a forced and an unnatural note in Madeline's gaiety. She was mirthful at times when there appeared to be no sufficient reason for her mirth, and cheerful when the conditions were most depressing.

When alone in her own room she generally paid the penalty. Frequently her spirits sank to zero. The desire to help Rufus Sterne was natural enough; but her helplessness drove her almost to despair. She could not even help herself. In a sense she was as much in the toils of circumstance as he was. She not only wondered what would become of him, but what would become of herself.

The weeks were slipping away rapidly, and the Tregonys were beginning to talk about their return to England. The days were often almost insufferably warm, and the birds of passage that crowded the hotels were beginning to take flight to more Northern latitudes. Day after day she had hoped she might discover some way of effecting her deliverance, but no way revealed itself. She was without a friend outside the Tregony family, and yet to return with them to Trewinion Hall would be to put herself in a position as intolerable as it would be compromising.

"What helpless things girls are," she would sometimes say to herself. "If I were only a man I could snap my fingers at everybody. But because I'm a girl I can just do nothing."

She felt so miserable one morning that she refused everyone's company, and went out for a walk alone.

Sir Charles was very cross when he knew, and he was still more cross when lunch time came and she did not return. As the afternoon wore away and she did not put in an appearance, his anger gave place to anxiety, and ultimately to very serious alarm.