Mrs. Barraclough was one of those old ladies who are constantly being surprised. She courted surprise. She never forestalled a climax and of the hundreds of sensational novels which she so greedily devoured never once was she guilty of taking a premature peep at the last chapter to ensure herself that right would triumph. "I shall find out all about it in good time" was the motto she affected. This being so she made no effort to secure Isabel's confidence but simply waited for Isabel to speak. The same reticence possessed her in the matter of the four mysterious serving girls. She hadn't the smallest idea why Anthony had suddenly transformed himself into a domestic agency although, at the back of her head, she guessed at a deep underlying motive. It gratified her beyond measure to be surrounded by unfathomed waters and frequently as a corollary to her prayers she would thank God for the little excitements and mysteries He sent to flavour her declining years.

After the uncontrollable rush of tears on her arrival Isabel pulled herself together and made a show of gaiety and preserved it nobly for nearly three weeks. Anthony had gone and gloomy forebodings were of no service. Accordingly she helped Mrs. Barraclough in the garden and made the very best friends of the four girls. Perhaps she was the least bit resentful on finding out that they knew almost as much of Anthony's plans as she herself.

"But did he tell you?" she asked in surprise.

"It's like this," said Flora who generally spoke for the company. "Jane and myself were with him in the Secret Service during the last year of the war."

"He got us the job," Jane interpolated. She was a big, bonny girl with broad shoulders, steady blue eyes and a complexion that would have advertised any health resort. "Cook kicks herself that she wasn't in that show."

It was at this point Mrs. Barraclough came into the room.

"Kicks herself! What a very unbecoming expression, Jane."

"Sorry, madam," said Jane and she and Flora sniggered uncontrollably.

"You girls perplex me greatly," said Mrs. Barraclough. "You do not laugh in the least like ordinary servants."

"How do ordinary servants laugh?" Jane asked.

"Generally speaking, in a high note that echoes distressingly throughout the house, whereas you laugh like young ladies."

"Oh, you old darling," exclaimed Flora with sudden impulsiveness. "I suppose if a decent education and upbringing counts for anything that's just what we are."

Mrs. Barraclough sat down rather abruptly on a small upright sofa in the centre of the room.

"Then for goodness sake tell me what you are doing in my kitchen."

There was no escaping the explanation especially when Isabel contributed:

"Come on, Flora, out with it."

"It's this way, madam. Lots of us went broke after the war—lots of us who'd only fifty quid a year to live on."

"Quid?" said Mrs. Barraclough. "Isn't that something to do with sailors and tobacco?"

"Pounds, then. We ran across Mr. Anthony out in France."

"Picked him out of a ditch near Arras with a bullet through his foot,"
Jane contributed.

"And after that got most awfully friendly and kept knocking up against each other."

Mrs. Barraclough shook her head.

"It must have been very painful for him with a bullet through his foot."

"When he heard we'd gone broke he said—just like him—'my mother's a sport, go and look after her.'"

"So I'm a sport," said Mrs. Barraclough with a smile. "But even so, why should I want looking after?"

"That's what puzzles me," said Isabel.

Jane and Flora exchanged glances.

"I don't know whether we ought to," said Jane.

"He's my fiancÉ," said Isabel, "and you're jolly well not going to keep me in the dark."

"And quite incidentally," Mrs. Barraclough remarked, "he's my son."

"Oh, very well," said Flora. "It seems he was all over some great big, get rich quick scheme—and there was a chance anyone connected with him might be got at."

"Got at!" Mrs. Barraclough's dark eyes opened a little wider.

"Um! A tough crowd was up against him you see."

"I see." The old lady nodded gravely but there was a sparkle of excitement in her expression. "So you and Jane and Cynthia and Agnes are here to protect me against the assaults of—of a 'tough crowd.'"

"We're here if we're wanted," said Jane robustly.

"And somehow," said Flora, "I think we shall be wanted."

Mrs. Barraclough's hands went out and she drew the two girls a little closer.

"My dears," she said, "I don't know why but lately I've had a pringly sort of feeling—as if something were going to happen. It's a sense of adventure perhaps. I used to be a very wild girl myself."

"But you mustn't worry," said Isabel. "It's sure to turn out all right, you know."

"I'm not worrying. I'm only hoping that if anything does happen I shall be in it."

"But look here," exclaimed Flora, "that's the very thing he wants to prevent."

"Yes, yes, but I know my Anthony, bless him. It would be so beautiful to help him again after all these years." She smiled retrospectively. "When he was a little boy he was always coming into conflict with his father. Poor Mr. Barraclough, he was a very austere man and Anthony's scrapes inspired from him the severest judgments. Tony had a little signal—he was much too proud to speak—he used to take out his pocket handkerchief and quite carelessly tie a knot in the centre. Whenever he did that I used to come to his aid. Dear Tony, I was always the one to rescue him from difficulty."

"He gets his pluck from you," said Flora.

"His father was a brave man too, until he had a little misfortune with a mule which rather upset his balance."

"Generally does," Isabel laughed.

"Mental balance," Mrs. Barraclough corrected. "For the last few years of his life he thought he was Archbishop of Canterbury and if dead people think I'm sure he believes he is buried in Westminster Abbey. There, run along, my dears, and leave me to collect my thoughts."

But she kissed Flora and Jane before letting them go. Isabel stayed in the room.

"So my boy is in danger," said Mrs. Barraclough with the least touch of tragedy in her voice. Isabel came forward and put an arm around her neck. "You knew, my dear?"

Isabel nodded.

"They oughtn't to have told you."

Mrs. Barraclough snorted defiantly.

"Stuff and nonsense. Think I hadn't guessed? After all, a proper man ought to be in danger. Besides," she added, "he's a good enough reason, hasn't he?"

"What reason?"

"Doesn't he want to marry you?"

"I know," said Isabel forlornly, "but that would have happened in any case."

"Don't you be too sure, my dear. Now I'm going to let you into my confidence—mind I'm only putting two and two together but I'm pretty sure I've got the total right. Did you know that Tony had put every penny he possessed into this enterprise?"

Isabel started.

"No. What makes you believe that?"

"Because all I've got is in it too, and he would never ask of me what he feared to do himself."

"Then you know all about it?"

"Hardly anything."

"But he oughtn't——"

"I think the risks and dangers came afterward."

"Even so," said Isabel, "it's just for money. That's what I hate so."

"Isn't it just for you," said Mrs. Barraclough gently. "Just because if he failed he wouldn't be able to make you his wife."

"He never told me."

"Of course he didn't. How could he?"

"Are you sure of all this?"

"Practically certain. You see his Uncle Arthur is executor of Tony's affairs. Executors are not supposed to speak but Uncle Arthur was an exception who proves the rule."

"For me," said Isabel slowly. "For our marriage—for us. Oh, I'm so glad it wasn't for cash." A cloud came over her brow. "But it makes it frightfully difficult for me supposing I had to——"

"What?"

"I mustn't say—even to you."

Mrs. Barraclough didn't press for an answer. She was pleased there was a little bit of mystery left over.

Isabel kissed the old lady very tenderly and walked out into the rose garden by herself. There was a glow on her cheeks almost as pink as the roses themselves. It was a sweet relief that Anthony had gone into these dangers more for her sake than any other reason and that their happiness and future rested on his success. In her twenty-one years of life she had come too much into contact with men whose ruling passion was the dollar to the exclusion of all else. At the back of her head the fear had haunted her that Anthony had been bitten by the money bug—the hateful contagion that straightened and thinned the lips, chilled the emotions and case-hardened the kindliest natures. But now that fear was gone to be replaced with glad assurance.

On a semi-circular stone bench that backed the roadside hedge Isabel sat and hugged her knees and here a few moments later she was joined by Flora.

"He's a topper, your man," said Flora. "A downright first rater."

Isabel grinned an acknowledgment.

"Did he have any trouble in getting away?"

"Awful, I believe, but—but they had a plan which he said would make it easy."

On the road side of the hedge, barely three feet away, a clergyman, who apparently was seeking protection from the sun, moved sharply and cocked a listening ear.

"What plan?"

"He didn't tell me that and anyhow I shouldn't be allowed to repeat it."

The listening clergyman looked disappointed.

"Do you know what he was going after?"

"Yes, I know."

"Wouldn't care to tell anyone, I s'pose. I'm as safe as a house."

"I'm certain you are, only——"

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter so long as he got away all right. He did get away all right, didn't he?"

"Yes, I—I think so—he must have or his servant, Doran, would have told me."

Harrison Smith, on the far side of the hedge, pushed back his clerical hat and frowned deeply.

"And you had no message?"

Isabel shook her head.

"None. So I just tell myself everything is all right."

"Oh, I'm sure it is—certain," said Flora ecstatically. "It's bound to be. Mr. Anthony'd never let himself be beaten by any crowd." She paused. "If only one could be in it—but nothing ever happens down here. Are you staying much longer?"

"Going back tomorrow or the next day. I must be in Town on the night of the 18th."

"That the day he's expected?"

"Yes, at eleven o'clock."

"Wish I could be there to give him a cheer when he comes in."

Isabel slipped an arm through Flora's.

"It's great of you to be so keen," she said.

"Think so," Flora replied. "Jolly sporting of you not to mind. We've got a bit of a 'pash' on Mr. Anthony, you know."

"I thought you had," said Isabel sympathetically.

"Kind of hero worship it is. Nothing to bother about 'cos as matter of fact we're all engaged—'cept Cook who hates men. But even Cook can't help admiring him. Be a sport and let us know if he gets through all right. You could 'phone."

"I will."

"Any notion which port he'll arrive at?"

"Couldn't say. I've a sort of idea that it might be one of the little
Cornish fishing villages."

"What makes you think so?"

"No particular reason only——"

"Yes, go on—be a pal."

"You won't repeat it?"

"No fear."

"There was a West Country guide book on his table one day and I happened to glance at it."

"Um."

"Ever heard of Polperro?"

"Yes."

"On one of the maps Polperro had a pencil line ringed round it and a couple of very small dots marked in certain places."

"That might have been years old."

"It wasn't. I had lent him a blue pencil a few days before—rather a funny colour it was. He'd used that pencil."

"You're a bit of a Sherlock."

"I oughtn't to have said anything about it."

"It's safe enough with me," said Flora. "You can bet your boots I shan't blab."

A silvery toned bell sounded from the house.

"There's tea," said Isabel.

The two girls rose and moved away arm in arm.

Mr. Harrison Smith pulled out his watch and looked at the dial.

"With luck I can catch it," said he.

And through the drawing room window Mrs. Barraclough saw the unusual spectacle of a clergyman running like fury in the direction of the railway station. As she remarked a few moments later:

"This is indeed an age of speed. Even the delivery of the Gospel is conducted by express service."