Beatrice Stanmore was sitting in a tiny room as the Countess Olga Petrovic entered. It was little more than a dressing-room, and adjoined her bedroom. She rose at Olga's entrance, and looked at the woman intently. She was perfectly calm, and was far more at ease than her visitor.

"I hope you will pardon the liberty I have taken," and Olga spoke in sweet, low tones; "but I came to plead for your forgiveness. I was unutterably rude to you to-night, and I felt I could not sleep until I was assured of your pardon."

"Won't you sit down?" and Beatrice pointed to a chair as she spoke. "I will ask my grandfather to come here."

"But, pardon me," cried Olga eagerly, "could we not remain alone? I have much to say to you—things which I can say to you only."

"Then it was not simply to ask my pardon that you came?" retorted Beatrice. "Very well, I will hear you."

She was utterly different from the sensitive, almost timid girl whom Dick Faversham had spoken to at Wendover. It was evident that she had no fear of her visitor. She spoke in plain matter-of-fact terms.

For a few seconds the older woman seemed to be at a loss what to say. The young inexperienced girl disturbed her confidence, her self-assurance.

"I came to speak to you about Mr. Faversham," she began, after an awkward silence.

Beatrice Stanmore made no remark, but sat quietly as if waiting for her to continue.

"You know Mr. Faversham?" continued the woman.

"Yes, I know him."

"Forgive me for speaking so plainly; but you have an interest in him which is more than—ordinary?" The words were half a question, half an assertion.

"I am greatly interested in Mr. Faversham—yes," she replied quietly.

"Even though, acting on the advice of your grandfather, you have become engaged to Sir George Weston? Forgive my speaking plainly, but I felt I must come to you to-night, felt I must tell you the truth."

Olga Petrovic paused as if waiting for Beatrice to say something, but the girl was silent. She fixed her eyes steadily on the other's face, and waited.

"Mr. Faversham is not the kind of man you think he is." Olga Petrovic spoke hurriedly and awkwardly, as though she found the words difficult to say.

Still Beatrice remained silent; but she kept her eyes steadily on the other's face.

"I thought I ought to tell you. You are young and innocent; you do not know the ways of men. Mr. Faversham is not fit for you to associate with."

"And yet you dined with him to-night. You took him to your flat afterwards."

"But I am different from you. I am a woman of the world, and your Puritan standard of morals has no weight or authority with me. Of course," and again she spoke awkwardly, "I have no right to speak to you, your world is different from mine, and you are a stranger to me; but I have heard of you."

"How? Through whom?"

"Need you ask?"

"I suppose you mean Mr. Faversham. Why should he speak to you about me?"

"Some men are like that. They boast of their conquests, they glory in—in——; but I need not say more. Will you take advice from a woman who—who has suffered, and who, through suffering, has learnt to know the world? It is this. Think no more of Richard Faversham. He—he is not a good man; he is not fit to associate with a pure child like you."

Beatrice Stanmore looked at the other with wonder in her eyes. There was more than wonder, there was terror. It might be that the older woman had frightened her.

"Forgive me speaking like this," went on Olga, "but I cannot help myself. Drive him from your mind. Perhaps there is not much romance in the thought of marrying Sir George Weston, but I beseech you to do so. He, at least, will shield you from the temptations, the evil of the world. As for Faversham, if he ever tries to see you again, remember that his very presence is pollution for such as you. Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking of—but I don't matter. I live in a world of which I hope you may always remain ignorant; but in which Faversham finds his joy. You—you saw us together——"

In spite of her self-control Beatrice was much moved. The crimson flushes on her cheeks were followed by deathly pallor. Her lips quivered, her bosom heaved as if she found it difficult to breathe. But she did not speak. Perhaps she was too horrified by the other's words.

"I know I have taken a fearful liberty with you," went on Olga; "but I could not help myself. My life, whatever else it has done has made me quick to understand, and when I watched you, I saw that that man had cast an evil spell upon you. At first I felt careless, but as I watched your face, I felt a great pity for you. I shuddered at the thought of your life being blackened by your knowledge of such a man."

"Does he profess love to you?" asked Beatrice quietly.

Olga Petrovic gave a hard laugh. "Surely you saw," she said.

"And you would warn me against him?"

"Yes; I would save you from misery."

For some seconds the girl looked at the woman's face steadily, then she said, simply and quietly:

"And are you, who seek to save me, content to be the woman you say you are? You are very, very beautiful—are you content to be evil?"

She spoke just as a child might speak; but there was something in the tones of her voice which caused the other to be afraid.

"You seem to have a kind heart," went on Beatrice; "you would save me from pain, and—and evil. Have you no thought for yourself?"

"I do not matter," replied the woman sullenly.

"You think only of me?"

"I think only of you."

"Then look at me," and the eyes of the two met. "Is what you have told me true?"

"True!"

"Yes, true. You were innocent once, you had a mother who loved you, and I suppose you once had a religion. Will you tell me, thinking of the mother who loved you, of Christ who died for you, whether what you say about Mr. Faversham is true?"

A change came over Olga Petrovic's face; her eyes were wide open with terror and shame. For some seconds she seemed fighting with a great temptation, then she rose to her feet.

"No," she almost gasped; "it is not true!" She simply could not persist in a lie while the pure, lustrous eyes of the girl were upon her.

"Then why did you tell me?"

"Because, oh, because I am mad! Because I am a slave, and because I am jealous, jealous for his love, because, oh——!" She flung herself into the chair again, and burst into an agony of tears.

"Oh, forgive me, forgive me for deceiving you!" she sobbed presently.

"You did not deceive me at all. I knew you were lying."

"But—but you seemed—horrified at what I told you!"

"I was horrified to think that one so young and beautiful like you could—could sink so low."

"Then you do not know what love is!" she cried. "Do you understand? I love him—love him! I would do anything, anything to win him."

"And if you did, could you make him happy?"

"I make him happy! Oh, but you do not know."

"Tell me," said Beatrice, "are you not the tool, the slave of someone else? Has not Mr. Faversham an enemy, and are you not working for that enemy?"

Her clear, childlike eyes were fixed on the other's face; she seemed trying to understand her real motives. Olga Petrovic, on the other hand, regarded the look with horror.

"No, no," she cried, "do not think that of me! I would have saved Dick from him. I—I would have shielded him with my life."

"You would have shielded him from Count Romanoff?"

"Do not tell me you know him?"

"I only know of him. He is evil, evil. Ah yes, I understand now. He sent you here. He is waiting for you now."

"But how do you know?"

"Listen," said Beatrice, without heeding her question, "you can be a happy woman, a good woman. Go back and tell that man that you have failed, and that he has failed; then go back to your own country, and be the woman God meant you to be, the woman your mother prayed you might be."

"I—I a happy woman—a good woman!"

"Yes—I tell you, yes."

"Oh, tell me so again, tell me—O great God, help me!"

"Sit down," said Beatrice quietly; "let us talk. I want to help you."

For a long time they sat and talked, while old Hugh Stanmore, who was close by, wondered who his grandchild's visitor could be, and why they talked so long.

It was after midnight when Olga Petrovic returned to her flat, and no sooner did she enter than Count Romanoff met her.

"Well, Olga," he asked eagerly, "what news?"

"I go back to Poland to-morrow, to my old home, to my own people."

She spoke slowly, deliberately; her voice was hard and cold.

He did not seem to understand. He looked at her questioningly for some seconds without speaking.

"You are mad, Olga," he said presently.

"I am not mad."

"This means then that you have failed. You understand the consequences of failure?"

"It means—oh, I don't know what it means. But I do know that that child had made me long to be a good woman."

"A good woman? Olga Petrovic a good woman!" he sneered.

"Yes, a good woman. I am not come to argue with you. I only tell you that you are powerless to hinder me."

"And Faversham? Does Olga Petrovic mean that she confesses herself beaten? That she will have her love thrown in her face, and not be avenged?"

"It means that if you like, and it means something more. Isaac Romanoff, or whatever your real name may be, why you have sought to ruin that man I don't know; but I know this: I have been powerless to harm him, and so have you."

"It means that you have failed—you!" he snarled.

"Yes, and why? There has been a power mightier than yours against which you have fought. Good, GOOD, has been working on his side, that is why you have failed, why I have failed. O God of Goodness, help me!"

"Stop that, stop that, I say!" His voice was hoarse, and his face was livid with rage.

"I will not stop," she cried. "I want to be a good woman—I will be a good woman. That child whom I laughed at has seen a thousand times farther into the heart of truth than I, and she is happy, happy in her innocence, in her spotless purity, and in her faith in God. And I promised her I would be a new woman, live a new life."

"You cannot, you dare not," cried the Count.

"But I will. I will leave the old bad past behind me."

"And I will dog your every footstep. I will make such madness impossible."

"But you cannot. Good is stronger than evil. God is Almighty."

"I hold you, body and soul, remember that."

The woman seemed possessed of a new power, and she turned to the Count with a look of triumph in her eyes.

"Go," she cried, "in the name of that Christ who was the joy of my mother's life, and who died that I might live—I bid you go. From to-night I cease to be your slave."

The Count lifted his hand as if to strike her, but she stood before him fearless.

"You cannot harm me," she cried. "See, see, God's angels are all around me now! They stretch out their arms to help me."

He seemed to be suffering agonies; his face was contorted, his eyes were lurid, and he appeared to be struggling with unseen powers.

"I will not yield," he cried; "not one iota will I yield. You are mine, you swore to serve me—I claim my own."

"The oath I took was evil, evil, and I break it. O eternal God, help me, help me. Save me, save me, for Christ's sake."

Romanoff seemed to hesitate what to do, then he made a movement as if to move towards her, but was powerless to do so. The hand which he had uplifted dropped to his side as if paralysed; he was in the presence of a Power greater than his own. He passed out of the room without another word.

The next day the flat of Countess Olga Petrovic was empty, but no one knew whither she had gone.

For more than a month after the scenes I have described, Dick Faversham was confined to his room. He suffered no pain, but he was languid, weak, and terribly depressed. An acquaintance who called to see him, shocked by his appearance, insisted on sending for a doctor, and this gentleman, after a careful examination, declared that while he was organically sound, he was in a low condition, and utterly unfit for work.

"You remind me of a man suffering from shell-shock," he said. "Have you had any sudden sorrow, or anything of that sort?"

Dick shook his head.

"Anyhow, you are utterly unfit for work, that is certain," went on the doctor. "What you need is absolute rest, cheerful companionship, and a warm, sunny climate."

"There's not much suggestion of a warm, sunny climate here," Dick said, looking out of the window.

"But I daresay it would be possible to arrange for a passport, so that you might get to the South of France, or to Egypt," persisted the doctor.

"Yes; I might get a passport, but I've no money to get there."

So Dick stayed on at his flat, and passed the time as best he could. By and by the weather improved, and presently Dick was well enough to get out. But he had no interest in anything, and he quickly grew tired. Then a sudden, an almost overmastering desire came to him to go to Wendover. There seemed no reason why he should go there, but his heart ached for a sight of the old house. He pictured it as it was during the time he spent there. He saw the giant trees in the park, the gay flowers in the gardens, the stateliness and restfulness of the old mansion. The thought of it warmed his heart, and gave him new hope.

"Oh, if it were only mine again!" he reflected.

He had heard that the rumours of Tony Riggleton's death were false, and he was also told that although he had been kept out of England for some time he would shortly return; but concerning that he could gather nothing definite.

Of Beatrice Stanmore he had heard nothing, and he had no heart to make inquiries concerning her. He had many times reflected on her sudden appearance at Olga Petrovic's flat, and had he been well enough he would have tried to see her. More than once he had taken a pen in hand to write to her, but he had never done so. What was the use? In spite of her coming, he felt that she must regard him with scorn. He remembered what Olga Petrovic had said in her presence. Besides, he was too weak, too ill to make any effort whatever.

But with the sudden desire to go to Wendover came also the longing to see her—to explain. Of course she was the affianced wife of Sir George Weston, but he wanted to stand well in her eyes; he wanted her to know the truth.

It was a bright, balmy morning when he started for Surrey, and presently, when the train had left Croydon behind, a strange joy filled his heart. After all, life was not without hope. He was a young man, and in spite of everything he had kept his manhood. He was poor, and as yet unknown, but he had obtained a certain position. Love was not for him, nor riches, but he could work for the benefit of others.

When the train stopped at Wendover station, he again found himself to be the only passenger who alighted. As he breathed the pure, balmy air, and saw the countryside beginning to clothe itself in its mantle of living green, it seemed to him that new life, new energy, entered his being. After all, it was good to be alive.

Half an hour later he was nearing the park gates—not those which he had entered on his first visit, but those near which Hugh Stanmore's cottage was situated. He had taken this road without thinking. Well, it did not matter.

As he saw the cottage nestling among the trees, he felt his heart beating wildly. He wondered if Beatrice was at home, wondered—a thousand things. He longed to call and make inquiries, but of course he would not. He would enter the park gates unseen, and make his way to the great house.

But he did not pass the cottage gate. Before he could do so the door opened, and Beatrice appeared. Evidently she had seen him coming, for she ran down the steps with outstretched hand.

"I felt sure it was you," she said, "and—but you look pale—ill; are you?"

"I'm ever so much better, thank you," he replied. "So much so that I could not refrain from coming to see Wendover again."

"But you must come in and rest," she cried anxiously. "I insist on it. Why did you not tell us you were ill?"

Before he could reply he found himself within the cottage.