It was hard to see what Violet Forster had gained by her change of residence, even from her own point of view; she felt that herself. She was conscious that Cobden Mansions was not Nuthurst, and that her particular corner in that tall, ugly, red brick building left a deal to be desired. And so far as she could see, she had done no good by coming; she had learnt absolutely nothing of Sydney Beaton's whereabouts; she could not have learnt less had she chosen to stray in the woods at Nuthurst instead of the highways and by-ways of London.

She had never got over the difficulty which had beset her at the first, that she had not been able to decide which was the best way to carry on her search. She had always the one dreadful fact to remember, that she was not the only person who wanted to get within touch of Sydney. If she was not careful she might do him the worst possible turn, by placing him in the hands of his enemies. That, in the sense in which she used the word, he was an innocent man she had no doubt whatever; but whether that sense was one which would commend itself to the authorities was the problem which caused her many a sleepless night, which took the roses out of her cheeks, the light from her eyes, the spring from her steps; which had transformed the blooming, light-hearted, high-spirited maiden into a nervous, shrinking, white-faced woman. She who had never known what it was to have an hour's illness, had suddenly become the victim of headaches which would not go. Such headaches! It seemed as if some terrible weight were pressing on her brain, making it difficult even for her to open her eyes. Major Reith caught her one day while she was in the grip of one of the very worst of them. Coming unannounced into her little sitting-room, he found her lying face downwards on the couch. Starting up, turning towards him her pallid face, they regarded each other with mutual discomfiture.

He spoke first: "I beg your pardon, but--I did knock."

Assuming a more orthodox position, she conjured up--it seemed with difficulty--a faint, wan smile.

"I'm not surprised. It's I who should apologise; this absurd head of mine makes me feel so stupid that anyone might knock half a dozen times without my knowing it."

Her appearance startled him; to him she seemed genuinely ill; the change which had taken place in her hurt him more than he would have cared to say. He was so unwilling that she should see the concern on his face that he turned his face from her under the pretence of putting his hat upon a chair.

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"What's the use? Medicine won't cure me, at least the sort of stuff a doctor would prescribe."

"Suppose you get really bowled over, what then?" She did not answer; she shut her eyes and sat still. "Do you know you are beginning to strike me as an extremely obstinate person?"

"Are you only just beginning to find that out?"

"You'll be a case for the hospital before very long, and then what good will you have done, for yourself, for anyone?"

"That's a question which I put to myself--so often. Please don't bully me. You never have seen me cry, have you? But I shall cry if you do; and I feel that if I once start I shall never stop. Have you any news? That's the medicine I want, and a doctor who will give it me."

"I'm more than half disposed to telegraph to someone who'd pack you off to the sea; you'll brood yourself ill."

"The sea won't do me any good; I've told you the only medicine which will. Have you any?"

"News? Of a sort. The regiment is all at sixes and sevens; in the whole of its history there's never been such a state of things before."

"What's wrong now with your precious regiment?"

"Everything. There's a bad spirit abroad in the mess; there's continual friction, the fellows are all at loggerheads, there's something that jars."

"So there ought to be, amongst such a set of individuals as constitute your mess."

"I've something to tell which you may regard as some of that medicine you are looking for."

"Have you? That's good; what is it?"

"It depends upon the point of view whether it's good or whether it's bad; from one point of view it's uncommonly bad."

"I hope that's not mine."

"I dare say it won't be. You know that throughout I've declined to express a positive opinion about that poker business of Beaton's."

"I do; and I've hated you for it."

"I'm beginning to think that there may be something in your point of view after all."

"Really? That is condescension; and what has brought it about--you're beginning to think?"

"I know what you think, and I know why; you must forgive me if my thoughts are on a different plane. You consider one man only, there's nothing that matters except him; to me there's a very great deal. I'm a soldier; to me the service is first and last; my regiment is all in all."

"Do you think I don't know that?"

"That affair of Beaton's was bad enough in all conscience; it's a tale which will be told of the regiment for many a day; but if it's going to be reopened I don't know what will become of us--I honestly do not."

"You don't believe that justice should be done even if the heavens fall?"

"I'm not sure that it is not better that one man should suffer, even though unjustly, rather than that a great and glorious tradition should be dragged in the mud and made a mock of."

"Your sentiments do you infinite discredit; I wonder, since you hold them, that I ever let you speak to me."

"Yes--well, I do hold them, and I'm going to continue to speak to you whether you let me or not."

"You haven't got your medicine."

"Young Tickell has made an announcement to the mess which is likely to cause trouble. He laid a cheque on the table for the amount which was in the pool that night, and he said that, as circumstances had arisen which caused him to doubt, he felt that he would like the money to be held in trust till the point was finally decided."

"Bravo, Jackie! Conscience moves in a mysterious way; that really is medicine."

"Yes, I thought you'd think so; it doesn't occur to you to think what the young gentleman's action means for the rest of us."

"I'm hopeful that it will cause your consciences to move in a mysterious way; I've always insisted that the age of miracles is still with us."

"Tickell as good as said that he doubted that Dodwell and Draycott had said the thing which was not, and if we had not all of us behaved infamously."

"You prefer the French point of view of the chose jugÉe; isn't that the phrase with which they decline to let injustice be set right?"

"The thing's done--that was bad enough; but if it's all going to be reopened it may be made infinitely worse; Tickell's action practically laid an unpleasant imputation upon every one of us."

"I shall write to Mr. Tickell and tell him how glad I am to find that there is in him the making of an honest man."

"What did you say to him that night at the Avonham ball?" Although the major paused for an answer, none came. "I believe that what you said, whatever it was, was the direct cause of his present action. Now what did you say?"

The lady rose from the couch, with a smile which, this time, was childlike and bland.

"I say that your medicine has already done me some good, and I think that the fresh air of the heavens may do me more. Regent's Park is within easy distance. Would you favour me with your society if I were moved to stroll in it? I will go and put my hat on." She turned again just as she was leaving the room. "By the way, who is the correspondent who has favoured this morning's Daily Screecher with that mysterious communication; do you think it was manufactured in the office? I fancy that mysterious communications sometimes are."

"You credit me with a knowledge of journalistic methods which I don't possess."

"You saw it?" He nodded. "What do you think of it?"

"I would rather not think of it at all."

"That seems to be your attitude in all such matters; you're like the ostrich who thinks that he hides himself and escapes from an unpleasant predicament by hiding his head in the sand. You see, I've got to think."

"Then, if I were you, I shouldn't."

"The Daily Screecher says that a correspondent has favoured them with an account of certain extraordinary occurrences which took place at Avonham on the night of the Easter ball. If the statement is true, and it seems to bear on it the hall-mark of truth, then it throws a very lurid light on the continued mysterious disappearance of Captain Noel Draycott. It goes on to say that searching and exhaustive inquiries are being made into the statement, the result of which will be published in an early issue. In the meantime it assures its readers that sensational, and even astounding, developments may shortly be expected. I suppose you are capable of telling me if you think that that communication was manufactured in the office?"

The major showed a disposition to fidget, on which the lady commented.

"It's no use your shuffling your feet, or looking down at your boots, or fingering your tie; everything is quite all right. Will you please tell me what you think?"

"It's difficult to say."

"That means that you think there is a bona fide correspondent and that the communication is genuine."

"I'll put it this way--it's a wonder to me that something hasn't peeped out already. You and I know that the facts that the papers have got are not the real ones; there are--how many persons?--goodness only knows!--who are in a position to supply them with something which is a great deal nearer the truth--the whole truth, that is."

"And you think that one of those persons has?"

"Who knows? So far what struck me most about the matter is, that in spite of the boasted argus eyes of the newspapers, how easy it is to keep things from them. Even the approximate truth of what took place at Avonham would make--if they knew it--the fortunes of half a dozen journalists; and in America they would have got it, long ago; it's possible that here they're going to get it now."

The girl's smile had again become wan and faint.

"You're a comfortable counsellor; that paragraph in the Screecher gave me my headache; your medicine did it good; but now it's as bad again as ever. I don't think that I care to stroll in the park--even with you."

"Whether you care or not you are coming. Go and put on your hat; or am I to carry you off without it?"

The girl hesitated; then, without a word, quitted the room. She was absent some minutes; a hat is not put on in a second. When she returned there was something about her eyes which filled the major with uncomfortable suspicions. In silence she led the way downstairs, and he followed.

It did not promise to be a very agreeable stroll, although the weather was fine. He seemed to find it hard to make conversation; she certainly declined to help him. They were into the park before a dozen sentences had been exchanged. Then, when they had walked quite a little distance without a word being spoken, all at once, as if moved by a sudden impulse, she made an effort to relieve the situation.

"If we walk on much longer, mumchance, like two dumb statues, people will think one of two things; either that we are married--I've been given to understand that husbands and wives never speak to each other when they take their walks abroad--or else that we have quarrelled."

He bore himself as if he had a poker down his back, and his eyes were fixed straight in front of him as he replied:

"I've not the least objection to their thinking the first."

"I dare say; but I have. Will you please talk to me about the weather."

Before he had a chance to air his eloquence upon that well-worn subject, something happened which rendered it unnecessary for him to say anything at all. A taxicab had gone rushing past, and as it passed, its occupant, a lady, put out her head to look at them. The cab had not gone another fifty yards before she stopped it. As they approached she was standing on the footpath with the obvious intention of accosting them. Her tone as she did so was enthusiastic.

"Miss Forster! This is a pleasure."

Judging from the expression on the young lady's face she was more than doubtful if it was a pleasure which was common to them both.

"Jane Simmons!" she exclaimed.

The other shook her by no means ill-looking head, and she laughed.

"Not Simmons; my name is Spurrier, Julia Spurrier. Most fortunate my meeting you like this, Miss Forster; I have for some time been most anxious to have a talk with you. Is there anywhere where I can say a few words to you in private? I believe you will regard what I have to say as of the first importance--to you, Miss Forster. I know what I am saying."