Gregory, on presenting himself at the Great House on the following morning, received the news of Mr. Endacott’s absence with marked interest.

“Gone to London, has he?” he observed. “That means that you’re left alone for the day.”

“Scarcely a tragedy,” she smiled. “There’s my aunt across the way whom I must go in and see some time, a perfectly delightful new piano that only arrived this morning, dozens of books to read and, if I feel energetic enough, I am going to practise mashie shots with the club you gave me.”

“A thoroughly selfish programme,” he pronounced.

“Why selfish?”

“Because it is a solitary one.”

“Improve upon it then,” she suggested.

“Easily,” he assented. “I brought my two-seater round, anyhow, hoping for the best, but with your uncle away the thing is preordained. I have given you six lessons at golf in the park. You’re doing thundering well, but not well enough. Let’s go to some real golf links.”

She considered the matter.

“Where?” she enquired.

“Cromer,” he answered promptly. “It may be rather crowded there but we shall arrive late. We can choose two or three vacant holes, have some lunch at the club house and motor home another way.”

“I should love it,” she acquiesced enthusiastically.

“I’ll go and tune up the old bus while you get ready,” he suggested.

It was a day which she never forgot; a day when all the little things went right, into which no jarring note of incident or conversation was ever introduced, when the sun shone, when everything which happened seemed to become an aid to further content. They motored lazily along the country lanes to the links, where Gregory was obliged to go and fetch the professional to see his amazing pupil. Afterwards they selected clubs, lunched, sat on the terrace for a time and motored by a devious way homewards. A mile or so from Ballaston, just inside the park, crossing which had afforded them a short cut, he stopped the car in the shadow of a great beech tree. She looked at him enquiringly.

“Puncture?”

“Sheer fatigue,” he rejoined mendaciously. “Great strain driving a car like this. Do you mind, just for a moment?”

“Why, surely not,” she answered, leaning back and taking out her cigarette case. “It’s perfectly delightful here. Won’t you smoke?”

He shook his head.

“Not just for a moment,” he answered, looking straight at the mascot upon the bonnet of his car. “I want to talk and I’m a jolly bad hand at it, anyway.”

“You’re not so hopeless,” she assured him encouragingly. “You can go straight on. I’ll help you out when it’s necessary.”

She spoke lightly enough but already a queer little sense of excitement warned her to keep her face turned away from his. The things which he might say seemed incredible. She was passionately anxious and yet afraid to hear them.

“You see, Miss Claire,” he began, “I made a jolly bad start with you and that makes me extra careful. I never thought I was going to turn superstitious, but I can assure you of one thing—I haven’t trusted myself alone in Uncle Henry’s room with that Image since I got back.”

“I hope your Uncle Henry’s behaviour,” she began, with a faint smile——

“Oh, don’t chaff,” he interrupted. “I think it would take the devil himself to persuade Uncle Henry to step out of the narrow paths. This is what I wanted to say—Claire.”

He paused again, unrebuked. His eyes looked up the avenue towards the house. His slim fingers played nervously with the steering wheel.

“We’re in for a big family smash, we Ballastons,” he confided. “What little there is left when it comes will have to go, of course, to the governor and to Uncle Henry. For me there won’t be anything. I’m not complaining. I’m young enough still. I have wonderful health and, although I’m an ass at all the things that money’s made out of, I can ride, I understand farming and horses and all that sort of thing. I have made up my mind what to do. I am going out to Canada.”

“Canada!” she murmured under her breath.

“Yes. I know some fellows there who are doing quite decently. I shall be able to get just the sort of start I want. Now of course,” he went on, “under the circumstances, I ought not to say what I’m going to say to you, but I am going to say it all the same. I asked you to marry me once, Claire. It wasn’t any good, of course. You had only seen the rotten side of me then, but you understood. To-day I can’t ask you to marry me, but I want to tell you that I have all that feeling which a man should have when he asks such a thing, and ten thousand times more than most men have.”

He paused again. She said nothing. Her face was turned even a little farther away. He went on.

“Of course, I’ve done no particular good in the world—have been all sorts of a rotter from one point of view—but I’ve kept moderately straight about girls and here’s the truth, anyhow. I never came near caring for one before, and I love you.”

“Gregory!” she whispered.

At the sight of her eyes, the sound of her voice, he was suddenly swept almost off his feet. It was amazing.

“Sweetheart, you mustn’t,” he begged, holding her hand firmly. “I know I’m doing wrong to tell you. On the other hand, it seems to me that I would be doing wrong if I went away and you didn’t know. So there you are! I can’t ask you to marry me, but I’m going to work like a horse as soon as I get away, and if I have any of the luck of the Ballastons they used to talk about, I shall only value it for one thing. I’m not asking you for anything—not for a thought even, much less a promise—but if at the end of a few years I see my way—I wonder——”

“You dear thing, Gregory,” she interrupted. “Kiss me at once.”

“You know I didn’t mean this, Claire,” he said, a little remorsefully, as he stopped the car at the gates of the Great House.

“I hoped you did,” she answered demurely.

“Idiot!” he smiled. “Remember, we’re not engaged. You haven’t promised anything. You’ve been sweet and dear and given me just the stimulus for work I needed.”

“Supposing,” she whispered, “that you found the treasure; you might not have to go to Canada.”

He shook his head gloomily.

“I daren’t trust myself to think about that,” he said. “Your uncle seems to have made up his mind not to help us, and I’m beginning to lose faith in the whole story.”

“Still,” she persisted, “if the story should turn out to be true—and Uncle believes it—your home might be saved, and you would not have to go abroad at all.”

“It would be wonderful,” he admitted.

“Don’t give up hope then,” she whispered. “Uncle was quite sweet to me last night—absolutely different. He’s gone to London—but there, perhaps I ought not to tell you. Just wait. Something pleasant may happen, after all.”

The door was thrown open by Andrews, the butler. She gave Gregory her hand which he held for a moment and raised to his lips. Her farewell glance lingered long in his memory.