I walked home with but one thought in my mind. The Archduchess had put into words—very plain, blunt words—what as yet I had scarcely dared harbour in my mind as a fugitive idea. She had done me in that respect good service. She had brought to a sudden crisis an issue which it was folly any longer to evade. I meant to speak now, and have done with it. I walked through the busy streets a dreaming man. It was for the last time. Henceforth, even the dream must pass.

I found Mabane and Arthur alone, for which I was sufficiently thankful. There was no longer any excuse for delay. Mabane had taken possession of the easy-chair, and was smoking his largest pipe. Arthur was walking restlessly up and down the room. Evidently they had been discussing between them the events of the afternoon, for there was a sudden silence when I entered, and they both waited eagerly for me to speak. I closed the door carefully behind me, and took a cigarette from the box on my desk.

"What did the Archduchess want?" Arthur asked bluntly.

"I will tell you all that she said presently," I answered. "In effect, it was the same as the others. She, too, wanted Isobel!"

"Shall we have to give her up?" Arthur demanded.

"We will discuss that another time," I said. "I am glad to find that you are both here. There is another matter, concerning which I think that we ought to come to an understanding as soon as possible. It has been in my mind for a long while."

"About Isobel?" Arthur interrupted.

"About Isobel!" I assented.

They were both attentive. Mabane's expression was purely negative. Arthur, on the other hand, was distinctly nervous. I think that from the first he had some idea what it was that I wanted to say.

"Isobel, when she came to us little more than a year ago," I continued, "was a child. We have always treated her, and I believe thought of her, as a child. It was perhaps a daring experiment to have brought her here at all, and yet I am inclined to think that, under the circumstances, it was the best thing for her, and, from another point of view, an excellent thing for us!"

"Excellent! Why, it has made all the difference in the world," Arthur declared vigorously.

"I see that you follow me," I agreed. "Her coming seems to have steadied us up all round. The changes which we were obliged to make in our manner of living have all been for the better. I am afraid that we were drifting, Allan and I, at any rate into a somewhat objectless sort of existence, and our work was beginning to show the signs of it. The coming of Isobel seems to have changed all that. You, Allan, know that you have never done better work in your life than during the last year. Your portrait of her was an inspiration. Some of those smaller studies show signs of a talent which I think has surprised everyone, except Arthur and myself, who knew what you could do when you settled down to it. I, too, have been more successful, as you know. I have done better work, and more of it. You agree with me so far, Allan?"

"There is no doubt at all about it," Mabane said slowly. "There has been a different atmosphere about the place since the child came, and we have thrived in it. We are all better, much the better, for her coming!"

"I am glad that you appreciate this, Allan," I said. "This sort of thing is rather hard to put into words, but I believe that you fellows understand exactly what I mean. We have had to amuse her, and in doing so we have developed simpler and better tastes for ourselves. We've had to give up a lot of things, and a lot of friends we've been much better without."

"It's true, every word of it, Arnold," Mabane admitted, knocking out the ashes from his pipe. "We've chucked the music-halls for the theatres, and our lazy slacking Sundays, with a night at the club afterwards, for long wholesome days in the country—very jolly days, too. We're better men in our small way for the child's coming, Arnold. You can take that for granted. Now, go on with what you have to say. I suppose this is all a prelude to something or other."

Even then I hesitated, for my task was not an easy one, and all the while Arthur, who maintained an uneasy silence, was watching me furtively. It was as though he knew from the first what it was that I was leading up to, and I seemed to be conscious already of his passionate though unspoken resistance.

"It was a child," I said at last, "whom we took into our lives. To-day she is a woman!"

Then Arthur could keep silence no longer. There was a pink flush in his cheeks, which were still as smooth as a girl's, but the passion in his tone was the passion of a man.

"You are not thinking, Arnold—you would not be so mad as to think of giving her up to any of these people?" he exclaimed. "They are her enemies, all of them. I am sure of it!"

"I am coming to that presently," I went on. "You know what happened this afternoon? You saw the likeness, the amazing likeness, between Isobel and that other girl, the daughter of the Archduchess. The Archduchess was herself very much impressed with it. Without a doubt she knows Isobel's history. She went so far as to tell me that she believed Isobel to be morganatically connected with her own family, the House of Waldenburg! She offered to take her under her own protection!"

"You did not consent!" Arthur exclaimed.

"I neither consented nor absolutely refused," I answered. "It was not a matter to be decided on the spur of the moment. But the more I think of it, the more I am puzzled. Madame Richard wants Isobel. She was not satisfied with our refusal to give her up. She sent that messenger of hers back with fresh offers, and when again we refused, the woman takes up her quarters here, always spying upon us, always accosting Isobel on any excuse. Madame Richard may be a very good woman, but I have seen and spoken with her, and I do not for one moment believe that her extraordinary persistence is for Isobel's sake alone. Then Lady Delahaye has never ceased from worrying us. She has tried threats, persuasions and entreaties. She has tried by every means in her power to induce us to give up the child to her. And now we have the Archduchess to deal with, and it seems to me that we are getting very near the heart of the matter. The Archduchess is a daughter of one of the Royal Houses of Europe, and Major Delahaye was once attachÉ at her father's Court. Then there is Grooten, the man who shot Delahaye. His interest in her is so strong that he risks his life and commits a crime to save her from a man whom he believes to be a source of danger to her. He sends her money every quarter, which, as you know, we have never touched—it stands in her name if ever she should require it. Grooten is a man into whose charge we could not possibly give her, and yet of all these people he is the only one whom I would trust—the only one whom I feel instinctively means well by her. Madame Richard wants her, Lady Delahaye wants her, and behind them both there is the Archduchess, who also wants her. I have thought this matter over, and, so far as I am concerned, I have decided——"

"Not to give her up to any of them!" Arthur exclaimed sharply.

"To give her up to no one who is not prepared to go into court and establish a legal claim," I continued. "It is very simple, and I think very reasonable. When she leaves us, it shall be to take up an accredited and definite station in life. The time may come at any moment. We must always be prepared for it. But until it does, we will not even parley any longer with these people who come to us and hint at mysterious things."

Arthur wrung my hand. He was apparently much relieved, and he did not know what was coming.

"Arnold, you are a brick!" he exclaimed. "That's sound common-sense—every word you've uttered. Let them prove their claim to her."

"I agree with every word you have spoken," Allan said quietly, in response to a look from me. "The child is at least safe with us, and she is not wasting her time. She has talent, and she has application. I, for my part, shall be very sorry indeed when the time comes, as I suppose it will come some day, for her to go."

Then I mustered up my courage, and said that which I had known from the first would be difficult.

"There is one thing more," I said, "and I want to say it to you now. It may seem to you both unnecessary. Perhaps it is. Still, it is better that we should come to an understanding about it. A year has passed since Isobel, the child, came to us. To-day she is a woman. If we still keep her with us there must be a bond, a covenant between us, and our honour must stand pledged to keep it. I think that you both know very well what I mean. I hope that you will both agree with me."

I paused for a moment, but I received no encouragement from either of them. They were both silent, and Arthur's eyes were questioning mine fiercely. I addressed myself more particularly to him.

"Allan and I are elderly persons compared with you, Arthur," I said, "but we might still be described at a stretch as young men. If we decide to remain Isobel's guardians, there is a further and a deeper duty devolving upon us than the obvious one of treating her with all respect. It is possible that she might come to feel a preference for one of us—a sense of gratitude, the natural sentiment of her coming womanhood, even the fact of continual propinquity might encourage it. Isobel is charming; she will be beautiful. The position, if any one of us relaxed in the slightest degree, might become critical. You must understand what I mean, I am sure, even if I am not expressing it very clearly. Isobel sees few, if any, other men. It is possible, it is almost certain, that she belongs to a class whose position and ideas are far removed from ours. There must be no sentimental relations established between her and any one of us. We are her brothers, she is our sister. So it must remain while she is under our charge. This must be agreed upon between us."

There was a dead, almost an ominous, silence. Mabane was standing with his arms folded, and his face turned a little away. I appealed first to him.

"Allan," I said, "you agree with me?"

"Absolutely!" he answered. "I agree with every word you have said."

I turned to Arthur.

"And you, Arthur?"

He did not at once reply. The colour was coming and going in his cheeks, and he was playing nervously with his watchchain. When he raised his eyes to mine, the slight belligerency of his earlier manner was more clearly defined.

"I think," he said, "that there is another side to the question. Isobel is the sort of girl whom fellows are bound to notice. Besides, being so jolly good-looking, she is such ripping good form, and that sort of thing. What you are proposing, Arnold, is simply that we should stand on one side altogether and leave Isobel for any other fellow who happens to come along."

"It scarcely amounts to that," I answered. "No other man is likely to see much of her while she is under our care. Afterwards, of course, the conditions are different. Our covenant, the covenant to which I am asking you to agree, comes to an end when she leaves us."

"You see," Arthur protested, "it is a little different, isn't it, for you fellows? Not that I'm comparing myself with you, of course, in any sort of way. You're both heaps cleverer than I am, and all that, but Isobel and I are nearer the same age, and we've been about together such a lot, motoring and all that, and had such good times. You understand what I mean, don't you? Of course, that sort of thing, that sort of thing—you know, brings a fellow and a girl together so, liking the same things, and being about the same age. It isn't quite like that with you two, is it now?"

Again there was silence. Mabane had withdrawn his pipe from his mouth, and was looking steadfastly into the bowl. As for me, I found it wholly impossible to analyse my sensations. All the time Arthur was looking eagerly from one to the other of us. I recovered myself with an effort, and answered him.

"We will not dispute the position with you, Arthur," I said quietly. "We will admit all that you say. We will admit, therefore, that by all natural laws you are the one on whom the burden of keeping this covenant must fall most heavily. That fact may make it a little harder for you than for us, but it does not alter the position in any way. There must be no attempt at sentiment between Isobel and any one of us. If by any chance the opening should come from her, it must be ignored and discouraged."

"I can't for the life of me see why," Arthur declared. "And I—well, it's no use beating about the bush. Isobel is the only girl in the world I could ever look at. I am fond of her! I can't help it! I love her! There!"

Mabane mercifully took up the burden of speech.

"Have you said anything to her?" he asked.

"No."

"Not a word?"

"Not a word," Arthur declared. "She is too young. She has not begun to think about those things yet. But she is wonderful, and I love her. It is all very well for you two," he continued earnestly. "You are both over thirty, and confirmed bachelors. I'm only just twenty-four, and I've never cared for a girl a snap of the fingers yet. I don't care any more about knocking about. Of course, I've done a bit at it like everyone else, but Isobel has knocked all that out of me. I should be quite content to settle down to-morrow!"

I tried to put myself in his place, to enter for a moment into his point of view. Yet I am afraid that I must have seemed very unsympathetic.

"Arthur," I said, "I am sorry for you, but it won't do. I fancy that before long she will be removed from us altogether. For her sake, and the sake of our own honour, no word of what you have told us must pass your lips. Unless you can promise that——"

I hesitated. Arthur had risen to his feet. The colour had mounted to his temples, his eyes were bright with anger.

"I will not promise it," he declared. "I love Isobel, and very soon I mean to tell her so."

"Then it must be under another roof," I answered. "If you will not promise to keep absolutely silent until we at least know exactly what her parentage is, you must leave us."

Arthur took up his hat.

"Very well," he said shortly. "I will send for my things to-morrow."

He left the room without another word to either of us.