Bag in hand, Mr. Dashwood made for the door. To reach the station by road would mean the risk of meeting Miss Grimshaw. By the Downs side, skirting the allotments and the Episcopalian chapel, ran a path that led indirectly to the station. This Mr. Dashwood took walking hurriedly, and arriving half an hour before the 1.10 to Victoria was due.

Crowsnest Station was not a happy waiting-place. Few railway stations really are. To a man in Mr. Dashwood's state of mind, however, it was not intolerable. Rose gardens, blue hills, or the music of Chopin would have been torture to him. Pictures illustrating the beauty of Rickman's boot polish and the virtues of Monkey Brand soap fitted his mood.

He arrived at Victoria shortly before three, and drove to his rooms at the Albany. It was a feature of Mr. Dashwood's peculiar position that, though heir to large sums of money, endowed with a reasonable income, and with plenty of credit at command, he was, at times, as destitute of ready cash as any member of the unemployed. Hatters, hosiers, tailors, and bootmakers were all at his command, but an unlimited credit for hats is of no use to you when your bank balance is overdrawn and boots fail to fill the void created by absence of money.

When he paid his cab off in Piccadilly he had only a few shillings left in his pocket. It was late on a Saturday afternoon, and the desolate prospect of a penniless Sunday lay before him, but left him unmoved. There is one good point about all big troubles—they eat up little ones.

* * * * *

This was Mr. Dashwood's letter to Miss Grimshaw, received and read by her on Monday morning:

"You must have thought me mad; but when you know all you will think differently. I hope to explain things when the business about the horse is over. Till then I will not see you or Mr. French. I cannot write more now, for my hands are tied."

Mr. French also received a letter, by the same post, which ran:

"My dear French:—When, at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, I agreed to come down to Drumgool House as your guest, you said to me frankly and plainly that, with regard to a certain young lady, you would give me 'a fair field and no favour'; you intimated that you yourself had ideas in that quarter, but that you would do nothing and say nothing till the lady herself had a full opportunity for deciding in her own mind—or at least for seeing more of us.

"I undertook not to rush things, and to do nothing underhand. Well, I have carried out my word. I have played the game. By no word or sign have I tried to take advantage of my position till Saturday, when my feelings overcame me, and I made a fool of myself. The agony of the thing is I can't explain to her my position. It's very hard, when a man has tried to act fair and square, to be landed in a beastly bog-hole like this.

"I only can explain when I ask her to be my wife—which, I tell you frankly, I am going to do, but not yet. I know how your plans and affairs are in a muddle till this race is over, and I propose to do nothing till then. Then, and only then, I will write to her, and I will tell you the day and hour I post the letter. I expect you to do to me as I have done to you, and not take advantage of your position.

"I will not see you till the event comes off, when I hope to see you at Epsom, and not only see you, but your colours first past the winning-post."

A youthful and straightforward letter, and sensible enough, considering the extraordinary circumstances of the case.

French, when he read it, scratched his head.

When he had made the compact with Bobby Dashwood in the smoking-room of the Shelbourne Hotel, he had done so half in joke, half in earnest. Violet Grimshaw had appealed to him from the first just as a pleasant picture or a pretty song appeals to a man, but, till the day at the Shelbourne Hotel, he had no views regarding her. She was in his house, under his protection. He looked on her more as a daughter than a stranger brought under his roof by chance, and had Bobby Dashwood not intervened, he might have continued so to regard her.

But the instant Mr. Dashwood spoke Mr. French became aware that Miss Grimshaw had become a necessity to him, or, rather, a necessary luxury. He was not in love with her, but she was a charming person to have in the house. She carried brightness with her. He did not want to lose her, and here was Dashwood proposing to carry her away.

Recognising that Bobby was very much in earnest, and knowing that, when he had passed his irresponsible stage, he would make an excellent suitor for any girl, French, large hearted and generous, was not the man to put barriers in the way of a good match for the homeless orphan from the States. But he would have no engagement on a half-formed acquaintanceship. If, when they had got to know each other well, Violet preferred Bobby to anyone else, well and good. If she preferred him (French), well and better.

But since that compact at the Shelbourne, though French had been so occupied by the horse that he had scarcely time to think of anything else, the bonds had been strengthening between him and the girl, and his kindly feeling for Bobby had been increasing.

He did not recognise the facts fully till he put down Mr. Dashwood's letter and summed up the situation exactly and precisely in the word "Botheration!" Everything had been going so well up to this. Garryowen was in the pink of condition. Though the debt to Lewis was due, Lewis might have been dead for all the trouble he gave, or could give, unless by any chance Dick Giveen found out the Sussex address, which was next to an impossibility; and now this bother must turn up, driving Dashwood away and so splitting up their pleasant little party. Dashwood was an invaluable aide-de-camp, but French was mourning him more as a lost friend, when, breaking in upon his meditation, Effie entered the room.

Disaster, when she appears before us, often comes at first in a pleasant disguise, and Effie looked pleasant enough this morning, for she never looked pleasanter than when full of mischief.

"Papa," said Effie, "what's to-day?"

"Monday," said Mr. French.

"I know it's Monday. I mean, the day of the month?"

"The thirtieth of March."

Effie absorbed this information in silence and occupied herself making cocked hats out of an old bill for straw that was lying on the floor, while her father occupied himself at the writing-table with some accounts. Miss Grimshaw, the good genius of the family, Fate had decoyed out on the Downs to watch Garryowen, with Andy up, taking his exercise.

"Papa," said Effie, after a while.

"What?" asked Mr. French in a bothered voice.

"How long does it take for a letter to go from here home?"

"Two days, nearly," said French. "Why do you want to know?"

"I was only thinking."

"Well, think to yourself," replied her father. "I'm busy, and don't want to be interrupted."

Effie obeyed these instructions, making incredibly small cocked hats out of the bill-paper and pursing up her lips during the process.

At last French, tearing up some calculations and throwing the pieces in the wastepaper basket, rose to his feet, lit a cigar, and strolled out.

"Won't you come out on the Downs?" said he as he left the room.

"No, thank you," said Effie; "I'm busy."

She waited till she heard his footsteps on the verandah; then she rose from her cocked-hat making, and went to the writing-table.

She got on the chair just vacated by her father, took a sheet of notepaper and an envelope, dipped a pen in ink, and began to address the envelope in a sprawling hand.

"Mr. Giveen,
"The Bungalow,
"Drumboyne,
"Nr. Cloyne, Ireland,"

wrote Effie.

Then she dried the envelope, and hid it in the blotting-pad.

She took the sheet of paper, dipped the pen in ink, and wrote on the paper with care and labour:

"April fool!"

Then, having dried these words of wisdom, she placed the sheet of notepaper in the envelope and gummed it. Then, getting down from the chair, she ran to the window to see that nobody was coming, and, assured of the fact, ran to the writing-table and stole a stamp from the drawer in which they were kept. Having stamped the latter, she placed this torpedo in her pocket, and, running out, called for Norah to get her hat and coat, as she wanted to go out on the Downs.

Every day at this hour Miss Grimshaw was in the habit of going for a walk and taking Effie with her. To-day, returning from looking at the horses, she found, to her surprise, Effie dressed and waiting.

"Which way shall we go?" asked Miss Grimshaw.

"Let's go through the village," said Effie. "I like the village."

It was a moist day, damp and warm, with just the faintest threat of rain. It was the last day of the season for the West Sussex hounds. They had met at Rookhurst, some seven miles away, and there was a chance of getting a glimpse of them.

As they passed the spot where, on Saturday, Miss Grimshaw had plucked the primrose and placed it in Mr. Dashwood's coat, she noticed that several more were out.

"I say," said Effie, as though she were a thought reader, "why did Mr. Dashwood go 'way Saturday?"

"I'm sure I don't know," replied the girl with a start. "What makes you ask?"

"I don't know," replied Effie.

Miss Grimshaw glanced sideways at her companion. Effie had lost considerably the elfish look that had been a striking feature in the child during her long, imaginary illness, but she had not lost it entirely. There was still something old-fashioned and vaguely uncanny about her at times, and she had, without doubt, now and then, the trick of saying things so opposite as to hint at a more than natural intelligence. Parrots have this peculiarity, too.

"If I tell you something," said Effie suddenly, "you won't tell it to anyone else, will you?"

"No."

"Say, ''Pon my honour.'"

"'Pon my honour."

"Well, I heard something."

"What did you hear?"

"I heard Mr. Dashwood saying he was an ass."

"Effie," said Miss Grimshaw hurriedly, "you must never repeat things you hear."

"There you go!" said Effie. "And you told me to."

"I didn't."

"You did. You said, 'What did you hear?'"

"Yes, but I did not know it was anything that Mr. Dashwood said."

"Why shouldn't I tell you what he said?"

"Oh, you can tell if you like. It doesn't matter to me. Where did you hear him say it?"

"In his bedroom, when he was packing his bag. Papa was with him; the door was open, and I heard him say it; and I heard papa say there was never a girl made but there wasn't a better girl made to match her, and that Mr. Dashwood wasn't to bother himself——"

"You needn't tell me any more."

"I can't, for Norah came, and I ran away."

"Where were you?"

"Listening at the door."

"Well, you certainly are frank!"

"What's that mean?" asked Effie.

"It means that you deserve a whipping. Come on. And, see here, Effie, you mustn't say anything about that to anyone. Have you told anyone else?"

"Only Norah."

"What did she say?"

"She only laughed."

Miss Grimshaw felt as though she were walking through a veil of blushes. Happily there was no one to see. Bobby Dashwood's extraordinary behaviour by the bridge was nothing, absolutely nothing, to the fact that he had told about it to Mr. French. To kiss, to run away, to tell! She knew nothing of the position of the two men towards one another; she only knew just what had occurred on the bridge, and what Effie had told her.

The uphill path to the village went between a double row of poplar trees and debouched on the Roman road just by the village pump.

"Are you going to the post-office?" asked Effie as they drew near the road.

"No. I haven't anything to do there."

"I heard papa say he wanted some postcards."

"Well, I've forgotten my purse, so I must get them to-morrow."

"Couldn't you put them down in the bill?"

"No. Post-offices don't give credit."

Effie hung lovingly on her companion's arm. They passed into the village street and, just as they made the turning, the thin, insignificant sound of a hunting horn came on the wind.

"There's the hounds," said Effie, and scarcely had she spoken the words than, topping the crest of the hill, came the scarlet-clad figures of the master and whips, the hounds, and after the hounds the hunt.

The fox had run to earth in Blankney woods, and they were going now to draw Fairholt's spinney.

"Come on," said Effie.

The child made a bolt across the road, and so swiftly that Miss Grimshaw had no time to follow. Hounds and horses blocked the road, but not so densely as to prevent her from seeing Effie run to the post-office letter-box and pop something in. When the press had gone by, and the road was clear, Miss Grimshaw crossed.

"What was that you put in the letter-box, Effie?"

"Nothing," said Effie with a laugh.

"Don't say that. I saw you putting something in. Was it a stone?"

"No," said Effie. "It wasn't a stone."

"You know what they do to children who put rubbish in letter-boxes?"

"No."

"They put them in prison."

"Well, they won't put me in prison."

"Yes, they will. And if you don't tell me what it was, I will go in and ask Mr. Chopping to open the box and then send for a policeman."

Effie, who had heard her elders ridiculing and vilifying Mr. Giveen for the past three months, had thought it a fine thing to play a joke of her very own upon him. She knew nothing of the disastrous nature of her act, but suddenly interrupted like this and put off her balance she did not want to confess it. Besides, she had stolen a postage stamp.

"Don't," said Effie, turning very pale.

"I will, if you don't tell."

"Well, it was only a letter."

"A letter?"

"Yes."

"Who gave it you to post?"

The suggestion created the lie.

"Papa."

"Well, if he gave you it, why did you hide it and post it secretly like that?"

"Pa told me not to let you see it," said Effie.

She was not a liar by nature, but children have streaky days in their moral life, just as men have, and to-day was a very streaky day with Effie. She had awakened that morning predisposed to frowardness; a slight bilious attack had made her fretful, and fretfulness always made her impish. The devil, taking advantage of this pathological condition, had incited her to make an April fool of Mr. Giveen, to steal, and to lie.

"Oh!" said Miss Grimshaw.

They walked away from the post-office, taking the downhill road to the bridge. They walked hurriedly; at least, the girl did—Effie had almost to trot in order to keep up with her.

A nice thing, truly. Here, for months, she had been working for the interests of a man who to-day had taken a child into his confidence, given it a letter to post, and instructions to keep the matter hidden from her. Worse than that, she had a dim suspicion that the letter was to Mr. Dashwood, and had to deal with that "affair."

She had taken the road to the bridge unconsciously, and when she reached it, and found herself at the very place where the affair had occurred, she could have wept from sheer mortification, only for the presence of the culprit at her side.

"Don't tell your father that you told me that, Effie," said Miss Grimshaw, after she had leaned for a moment on the parapet of the bridge, deep in troubled thought.

"No," said Effie, "I won't."

Miss Grimshaw resumed her meditations, and Effie, very quiet and strangely subdued, hung beside her, looking also at the river.

Even in the time of the Roman legionaries lovers had haunted this place. What a story it could have told of lovers and love affairs gone to dust! But from all its wealth of stories, I doubt if it could have matched in involution and cross-purpose the love affair in which figured Mr. French, Mr. Dashwood, and the girl in the Homburg hat, who was now gazing at the wimpling water and listening to the moist wind in the branches of the trees.

She was of the order of people who forgive a blow struck in anger readily, but not a slight, or a fancied slight. French had slighted her, and she would never forgive him. She had helped him, plotted and planned for him, and it had all ended in this!

There was nothing for it but to leave The Martens as quickly as might be, and return to London; and it was only now that she recognised, fully shown up against the background of her resentment, the pleasant ties and interests that bound her to these people, ties and interests that would have to be broken and dissolved. So, in a fever of irritation, she told herself as she leaned on the low parapet and looked at the river, while Effie broke pieces of mortar from the cracks between the stones.

What, perhaps, rankled deepest in her heart was the expression used by French and repeated by Effie. "There is never a girl but you'll find a better one to match her"—or words to that effect.

Dinner at The Martens was a mid-day function. At half-past one, when Mr. French came home from a walk over the high Downs, he found dinner waiting for him. Miss Grimshaw during the meal seemed to be suffering from a dumbness affecting not only her speech, but her manner; her movements were still and formal, and inexpressive, and she never once looked in his direction, but engaged herself entirely with Effie, who also had a wilted air and appearance.

At tea it was the same.

After tea, Mr. French lit a cigar and went out on the verandah to smoke.

He could not make it out at all. Something had happened in the space of a few hours to make all this difference in the girl. What could that something be? At eleven o'clock she had been all right, yet at half-past one she was a different person.

He was not a man to keep up a misunderstanding without knowing the reason of it, and, having smoked his cigar half through, he went back into the house and to the sitting-room, where the girl was curled up on the sofa, reading "Punch."

"Look here," said French, "what's the matter?"

"I beg your pardon?" said Miss Grimshaw, uncurling herself and sitting half erect.

"What's the matter? Something is wrong. Have I done anything, or what is it?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Nothing is the matter that I am aware of, specially."

"Well, now, see here," said Mr. French, taking a seat close by, "I thought, maybe, you seemed so silent, that something had gone wrong, or I'd done something that displeased you. If I have, just let me know it."

Miss Grimshaw had risen erect, and now she was making for the door.

"I don't know what you call wrong. I call subterfuge wrong. Perhaps I am mistaken. It's all a matter of opinion, I suppose—but, anyhow, it is not worth discussing."

Then she was gone, leaving the astonished Mr. French to amuse himself with the problem of how he had employed subterfuge, and against whom.

She did not appear at supper, alleging a headache.

She went to bed at nine.