In his note to Guy, Cyril had asked the latter to join him at his club as soon as he had left Priscilla at the hotel, and so when the time passed and his friend neither came nor telephoned, Cyril's anxiety knew no bounds.

What could have happened? thought Cyril. Had Priscilla been arrested? In that case, however, Guy would surely have communicated with him at once, for the police could have had no excuse for detaining the latter.

Several acquaintances he had not seen for years greeted him cordially, but he met their advances so half-heartedly that they soon left him to himself, firmly convinced that the title had turned his head. Only one, an old friend of his father's, refused to be shaken off and sat prosing away quite oblivious of his listener's preoccupation till the words "your wife" arrested Cyril's wandering attention.

"Yes," the Colonel was saying, "too bad that you should have this added worry just now. Taken ill on the train, too—most awkward."

Cyril was so startled that he could only repeat idiotically: "My wife?"

"Am I wrong?" exclaimed the Colonel, evidently at a loss to understand Cyril's perturbation. "Your wife is in town, isn't she, and ill?"

What should he answer? He dared not risk a denial.

"Who told you that she was ill?" he asked.

"It was in the morning papers. Didn't you see it?"

"In the papers!"

Cyril realised at once that he ought to have foreseen that this was bound to have occurred. Too many people knew the story for it not to have leaked out eventually.

"I have not had time to read them to-day," replied Cyril as soon as he was able to collect his wits a little. "What did they say?"

"Only that your wife had been prostrated by the shock of Wilmersley's murder, and had to be removed from the train to a nursing home."

"It's a bore that it got into the papers. My wife is only suffering from a slight indisposition and will be all right in a day or two," Cyril hastened to assure him.

"Glad to hear it. I must meet her. Where is she staying at present?"

"She—she is still at the nursing home—but she is leaving there to-morrow." Then fearing that more questions were impending, Cyril seized the Colonel's hand and shaking it vehemently exclaimed: "I must write some letters. So glad to have had this chat with you," and without giving the Colonel time to answer, he fled from the room.

Cyril looked at his watch. Ten minutes to three! Guy must have met with an accident. Suddenly an alarming possibility occurred to him,—what if the police had traced the jewels to Campbell? The bag, which had disappeared, must have been taken by them. Griggs, when he inquired so innocently about "Lady Wilmersley," had been fully cognisant of the girl's identity. What was to be done now? He could not remain passive and await developments. He must—was that—could that be Campbell sauntering so leisurely toward him? Indeed it was!

"What has happened?" asked Cyril in a hoarse whisper, dragging his friend into a secluded corner. "Tell me at once."

"Nothing, my dear boy. I am afraid I kept you waiting longer than I intended to. I hope you have not been anxious?" Guy seemed, however, quite unconcerned.

"Anxious!" exclaimed Cyril indignantly. "Well, rather! How could you have kept me in such suspense? Why didn't you come to me at once on leaving Miss Prentice?"

"But I did. I have just left her."

"And she is really all right? The governess, Miss What's her name, is with her?"

"Certainly. But I didn't want to leave Mrs. Thompkins alone with a stranger in a strange place, so I stayed and lunched with them."

Cyril almost choked with rage. He had had no lunch at all. He had been too upset to think of such a thing and all the time they—oh! It was too abominable! Campbell was a selfish little brute. He would never forgive him, thought Cyril, scowling down at the complacent offender. For he was complacent, that was the worst of it. From the top of his sleek, red head to the tips of his immaculate boots, he radiated a triumphant self-satisfaction. What was the matter with the man? wondered Cyril. He seemed indefinably changed. There was a jauntiness about him—a light in his eyes which Cyril did not remember to have noticed before. And what was the meaning of those two violets drooping so sentimentally in his buttonhole? Cyril stared at the flowers as if hypnotised.

"So you liked Miss Prentice?" he managed to say, controlling himself with an effort.

"Rather! But I say, Cyril, it's all rot about her being that Prentice woman."

"Ah, you think so?"

"I don't think—I know. Why, she speaks French like a native."

"How did you find that out?" asked Cyril, forgetting his indignation in his surprise at this new development.

"We had a duffer of a waiter who understood very little English, so Mrs. Thompkins spoke to him in French, and such French! It sounded like the real thing."

Cyril was dumfounded. How could a girl brought up in a small inland village, which she had left only six months before, have learnt French? And then he remembered that the doctor had told him that she had retained a dim recollection of Paris. Why had the significance of that fact not struck him before?

"But if she is not Priscilla Prentice, who on earth can she be? She can't be Anita Wilmersley!" he exclaimed.

"Of course not. She—she—" Guy paused at a loss for a suggestion.

"And yet, if she is not the sempstress, she must be Anita!"

"Why?"

"Because of the jewels in her bag."

"I don't believe they are the Wilmersley jewels——"

"There is no doubt as to that. I have the list somewhere and you can easily verify it."

"Then the bag is not hers. It may have been left in the seat by some one else."

"She opened it in my presence."

"But you proved to me last night that she could not be Lady Wilmersley," insisted Guy.

"So I did. Anita has masses of bright, yellow hair. This girl's hair is dark."

"Well, then——"

"There seems no possible explanation to the enigma," acknowledged Cyril.

"Perhaps she wore a wig."

"She did not. When she fainted I loosened her veil and a strand of her hair caught in my fingers. It was her own, I can swear to that."

"She may have dyed it."

"I never thought of that," exclaimed Cyril. "No, I don't think she could have had time to dye it. It takes hours, I believe. At nine, when she was last seen, she had made no attempt to alter her appearance. Now Wilmersley was——"

"Hold on," cried Guy. "You told me, did you not, that she had cut off her hair because it had turned white?"

"Yes," assented Cyril.

"Very well, then, that disposes of the possibility of its having been dyed."

"So it does. And yet, she carried the Wilmersley jewels, that is a fact we must not forget."

"Then she must be a hitherto unsuspected factor in the case."

"Possibly, and yet—-"

"Yet what?"

"I confess I have no other solution to offer. Oh, by the way, what is the number of her room?"

Guy stiffened perceptibly.

"I don't think I remember it."

"How annoying! I particularly asked you to make a note of it!"

"Oh, did you?" Guy's face was averted and he toyed nervously with his eye-glass.

"Of course I did. You must realise—in fact we discussed it together—that I must be able to see her."

"As there is nothing that you can do for her, why should you compromise her still further?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you ought not to take further advantage of her peculiar affliction so as to play the part of a devoted husband."

"This is outrageous—" began Cyril, but Campbell cut him short.

"While you fancied that she was in need of your assistance, I grant that there was some excuse for your conduct, but to continue the farce any longer would be positively dishonourable."

Cyril was so surprised at Campbell's belligerent tone that for a moment it rendered him speechless. From a boy Guy had always been his humble admirer. What could have wrought this sudden change in him? wondered Cyril. Again his eyes lingered on the violets. It was not possible! And yet Cyril had often suspected that under Guy's obvious shrewdness there lurked a vein of romanticism. And as Cyril surveyed his friend, his wrath slowly cooled. For the first time it occurred to him that Campbell's almost comic exterior must be a real grief to a man of his temperament. His own appearance had always seemed to Cyril such a negligible quantity that he shrank from formulating even in his own mind the reason why he felt that it would be absurd to fear Guy as a rival. A man who is not to be feared is a man to be pitied, and it was this unacknowledged pity, together with a sudden suspicion of the possible tragedy of his friend's life, which allayed Cyril's indignation and made him finally reply gently:

"I think you are mistaken. I am sure she still needs me."

"She does not. Miss Trevor and I are quite able to look after her."

"I don't doubt your goodwill, my dear Guy, but what about her feelings?"

"Feelings! I like that! Do you fancy that her feelings are concerned? Do you imagine that she will be inconsolable at your absence?"

"You appear to forget that she believes me to be her husband. Her pride—her vanity will be hurt if I appear to neglect her." Cyril still spoke very quietly.

"Then I will tell her the truth at once," exclaimed Campbell.

"And risk the recurrence of her illness? Remember the doctor insisted that she must on no account be agitated."

"Why should it agitate her to be told that you are not her husband? I should think it would be a jolly sight more agitating to believe one's self bound to a perfect stranger. It is a wonder it has not driven the poor child crazy."

"Luckily she took the sad news very calmly," Cyril could not refrain from remarking. Really, Guy was intolerable and he longed with a primitive longing to punch his head. But he had to control himself. Guy was capable of being nasty, if not handled carefully. So he hastily continued:

"How can you undeceive her on one point without explaining the whole situation to her?"

"I—" began Guy, "I—" He paused.

"Exactly. Even you have no solution to offer. Even you have to acknowledge that the relief of knowing that she is not my wife might be offset by learning not only that we are quite in the dark as to who she is, but that at any moment she may be arrested on a charge of murder."

"I don't know what to do!" murmured Guy helplessly.

"Do nothing for the present."

"Nothing!" exclaimed Guy. "Nothing! And leave you to insinuate yourself into her—affections! She must be told the truth some day, but by that time she may have grown to—to—love you." Guy gulped painfully over the word. "You are a married man. That fact evidently seems 'too trifling' to be considered, but I fancy she will not regard it as casually as you do."

"This is absurd," began Cyril, but Guy intercepted him.

"You feel free to do as you please because you expect to get a divorce, but you have not got it yet, remember, and in the meantime your wife may bring a countersuit, naming Miss—Mrs. Thompkins as corespondent."

This suggestion staggered Cyril for a moment.

"And in that case," continued Campbell, "she would probably think that she ought to marry you. After having been dragged through the filth of a divorce court, she would imagine herself too besmirched to give herself to any other man. And your wealth, your title, and your precious self may not seem to her as desirable as you suppose. She is the sort of girl who would think them a poor exchange for the loss of her reputation and her liberty of choice. When she discovers how you have compromised her by your asinine stupidity, I don't fancy that she will take a lenient view of your conduct."

"You seem to forget that if I had not shielded her with my name, she would undoubtedly have been arrested on the train."

"Oh, I don't doubt you meant well."

"Thanks," murmured Cyril sarcastically.

"All I say is that you must not see her again till this mystery is cleared up. I didn't forget about the number of her apartment, but I wasn't going to help you to sneak in to her at all hours. Now, if you want to see her, you will have to go boldly up to the hotel and have yourself properly announced. And I don't think you will care about that."

"I promised to see her. I shall not break my word."

"I don't care a fig for your promises. You shan't see her as long as she believes you to be her husband."

Luckily the room was empty, for both men had risen to their feet.

"I shall see her," repeated Cyril.

"If you do, I warn you that I shall tell her the truth and risk the consequences. She shall not, if I can help it, be placed in a position where she will be forced to marry a man who has, after all, lived his life. She ought—" Guy paused abruptly.

"She ought, in other words, to be given the choice between my battered heart and your virgin affections. Is that it?"

"I mean——"

"Oh, you have made your meaning quite clear, I assure you!" interrupted Cyril. "But what you have been saying is sheer nonsense. You have been calling me to account for things that have not happened, and blaming me for what I have not done. She is not being dragged through the divorce court, and I see no reason to suppose that she ever will be. I am not trying to force her to marry me, and can promise that I shall never do so. Far from taking advantage of the situation, I assure you my conduct has been most circumspect. Don't cross a bridge till you get to it, and don't accuse a man of being a cad just because—" Cyril paused abruptly and looked at Guy, and as he did so, his expression slowly relaxed till he finally smiled indulgently—"just because a certain lady is very charming," he added.

But Guy was not to be pacified. He would neither retract nor modify his ultimatum. He knew, of course, that Cyril would not dare to write the girl; for if the letter miscarried or was found by the police, it might be fatal to both.

But while they were still heatedly debating the question, a way suddenly occurred to Cyril by which he could communicate with her with absolute safety. So he waited placidly for Guy to take himself off, which he eventually did, visibly elated at having, as he thought, effectually put a stop to further intercourse between the two. He had hardly left the club, however, before Cyril was talking to Priscilla over the telephone! He explained to her as best he could that he had been called out of town for a few days, and begged her on no account to leave her apartments till he returned. He also tried to impress on her that she had better talk about him as little as possible and above all things not to mention either to Campbell or Miss Trevor that she had heard from him and expected to see him before long.

It cost Cyril a tremendous effort to restrict himself to necessary instructions and polite inquiries, especially as she kept begging him to come back to her as soon as possible. Finally he could bear the strain no longer, and in the middle of a sentence he resolutely hung up the receiver.