With upraised skirts, and feet that flashed like silver across the turf and amongst the bracken, Wilhelmina flew homewards. Once more her heart was like the heart of a girl. Her breath came in little sobs mingled with laughter, the ground beneath her feet was buoyant as the clouds. She had no fear of being pursued—least of anything in the world did she desire it. The passion of a woman is controlled always by her sentiment. It seemed to her that that breathless episode was in itself an epic, she would not for worlds have added to it, have altered it in any shape or form. A moment’s lingering might so easily have spoilt everything. Had he attempted to play either the prude or the Lothario, the delicate flavour would have passed away from the adventure, which had set her heart beating once more, and sent the blood singing so sweetly through her veins. So she sped through the darkness, leaving fragments of lace upon the thorns, like some beautiful bird, escaped from long captivity, rushing through a strange world.

Before she reached the grounds the storm came. There was a crash of thunder, which seemed to tear apart the heavens above, and then the big raindrops began to fall upon her bare shoulders and her clothes as light and airy as butterfly’s wings. She abandoned herself to the ruin of a Paquin gown without a thought of regret; she even laughed softly with pleasure as she lifted her burning face to the cool sweet deluge, and lessened her pace in the avenue, walking with her hands behind her and her head still upraised. It was a wonderful night, this. She had found something of her lost girlhood.

She reached the house at last, and stole through the hall like a truant schoolgirl. Her shoes were nothing but pulp; her dress clung to her limbs like a grey, sea-soaked bathing-costume; everywhere on the oak floor and splendid rugs she left a trail of wet. On tiptoe she stole up the stairs, looking guiltily around, yet with demure laughter in her glowing eyes. She met only one amazed servant, whom she dispatched at once for her own maid. In the bath-room she began to strip off her clothes, even before Hortense, who loved her, could effect a breathless entrance.

“Eh! Madame, Madame!” the girl exclaimed, with uplifted hands.

Wilhelmina stopped her, laughing.

“It’s all right, Hortense,” she exclaimed gaily. “I was out in the grounds, and got caught in the storm. Turn on the hot water and cut these laces—so!”

To Hortense the affair was a tragedy. Her mistress’ indifference could not lessen it.

“Madame,” she declared, “the gown is ruined—a divine creation. Madame has never looked so well in anything else.”

“Then I am glad I wore it to-night,” was the astonishing reply. “Quick, quick, quick, Hortense! Get me into the bath, and bring me some wine and biscuits. I am hungry. I don’t think I could have eaten any dinner.”

Hortense worked with nimble fingers, but her eyes at every opportunity were studying her mistress’ face. Was it the English rain which could soften and beautify like this? Madame was brilliant—and so young! Such a colour! Such a fire in the eyes! Madame laughed as she thrust her from the room.

“The wine, Hortense, and the biscuits—no sandwiches! I die of hunger. And send word to the library that I have been caught in the storm, and must change my clothes, but shall be down presently. So!”

She found them, an hour later, just finishing a rubber. Their languid post-mortem upon a curiously played hand was broken off upon her entrance. They made remarks about the storm and her ill-luck—had she been far from shelter? was she not terrified by the lightning? Lady Peggy remembered her gown. Deyes alone was silent. She felt him watching her all the time, taking cold note of her brilliant colour, the softer light in her eyes. She felt that he saw her as she was—a woman suddenly set free, even though for a few short hours. She had broken away from them all, and she gloried in it.

She played bridge later—brilliantly as usual, and with success. Then she leaned back in her chair and faced them all.

“Dear guests,” she murmured, “you remember the condition, the only condition upon which we bestowed our company upon one another in this benighted place. You remember it was agreed that when you were bored, you left without excuse or any foolish apologies. The same to apply to your hostess.”

“My dear Wilhelmina,” Lady Peggy exclaimed, “I know what you’re going to say, and I won’t go! I’m not due anywhere till the thirteenth. I won’t be stranded.”

Wilhelmina laughed.

“You foolish woman!” she exclaimed. “Who wants you to go? You shall be chatelaine—play hostess and fill the place if you like. Only you mustn’t have Leslie over more than twice a week.”

“You are going to desert us?” Deyes asked coolly.

“It was in the bond, wasn’t it?” she answered. “Peggy will look after you all, I am sure.”

“You mean that you are going away, to leave Thorpe?” Stephen Hurd asked abruptly.

She turned her head to look at him. He was sitting a little outside the circle—an attitude typical, perhaps, of his position there. The change in her tone was slight indeed, but it was sufficient.

“I am thinking of it,” she answered. “You, Gilbert, and Captain Austin can find some men to shoot, no doubt. Ask any one you like. Peggy will see about some women for you. I draw the line at that red-haired Egremont woman. Anybody else!”

“This is a blow,” Deyes remarked, “but it was in the bond. Nothing will move me from here till the seventeenth—unless your chef should leave. Do we meet in Marienbad?”

“I am not sure,” Wilhelmina answered, playing idly with the cards. “I feel that my system requires something more soothing.”

“I hate them all—those German baths,” Lady Peggy declared. “Ridiculous places every one of them.”

“After all, you see,” Wilhelmina declared, “illness of any sort is a species of uncleanliness. I think I should like to go somewhere where people are healthy, or at least not so disgustingly frank about their livers.”

“Why not stay here?” Stephen ventured to suggest. “I doubt whether any one in Thorpe knows what a liver is.”

“‘Inutile!’” Lady Peggy exclaimed. “Wilhelmina has the ‘wander fever.’ I can see it in her face. Is it the thunder, I wonder?”

Deyes walked to the window and threw it open. The storm was over, but the rain was still falling, a soft steady downpour. The cooler air which swept into the room was almost faint with the delicious perfume of flowers and shrubs bathed in the refreshing downpour.

“I think,” he said, “that there is some magic abroad to-night. Did you meet Lucifer walking in the rose garden?” he asked, turning slightly towards his hostess. “The storm may have brought him—even here!”

“Neither Lucifer nor any other of his princely fellows,” she answered. “The only demon is here,”—she touched her bosom lightly—“the demon of unrest. It is not I alone who am born with the wanderer’s curse! There are many of us, you know.”

He shook his head.

“You have not the writing in your face,” he said. “I do not believe that you are one of the accursed at all. To-night——”

She was standing by his side now, looking out into the velvety darkness. Her eyes challenged his.

“Well! To-night?”

“To-night you have the look of one who has found what she has sought for for a long time. This sounds bald, but it is as near to truth as I can get.”

She was silent for a moment. She stood by his side listening to the soft constant patter of the rain, the far-away rumblings of the dying storm.

“One has moods,” she murmured.

“Heaven forbid that a woman should be without them!” he answered.

“Do you ever feel as though something were going to happen?” she asked suddenly.

“Often,” he answered; “but nothing ever does!”

Lady Peggy came yawning over to them.

“My dear,” she said, “I feel it in my very bones. I firmly believe that something is going to happen to every one of us. I have a most mysterious pricking about my left elbow!”

“To every one of us?” Stephen Hurd asked, idly enough.

“To every one of us!” she answered. “To you, even, who live in Thorpe. Remember my words when you get home to-night, or when you wake in the morning. As for you, Wilhelmina, I am not at all sure that you have not already met with your adventure.”

Deyes lit a cigarette.

“Let us remember this,” he declared. “In a week’s time we will compare notes.”

Stephen Hurd stood up to take his leave.

“You are really going—soon?” he asked, as he bent over her carelessly offered hand.

“As soon as I can decide where to go to,” she answered.

“Can I give my father any message? Would you care to see him to-morrow morning?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“It is not necessary,” she answered.

He made his adieux reluctantly. Somehow he felt that the night had not been a success. She was going away. Very likely he would not see her again. The great house and all its glories would be closed to him. To do him justice, he thought of that less than the casual manner of her farewell. His vanity was deeply wounded. She had begun by being so gracious—no wonder that he had lost his head a little. He thought over the events of the last few days. Something had occurred to alter her. Could he have offended in any way?

He walked dejectedly home, heedless of the sodden path and wet grass. A light was still burning in the study. He hesitated for a moment, and then, turning the handle, entered.

“You’re late, father,” he remarked, going towards the cupboard to select a pipe.

There was no answer. The still figure in the chair never moved. Something in the silence struck Stephen as ominous. He turned abruptly round, and for the first time noticed the condition of the room. A chair was overturned, a vase of flowers spilt upon the table, the low window, from which one stepped almost into the village street, was wide open. The desk in front of the motionless figure was littered all over with papers in wild confusion. Stephen, with a low cry of horror, crossed the room and laid his hand upon his father’s shoulder. He tried to speak to him, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew very well that there could be no reply. His father was sitting dead in his chair.