Mr. Tremain had not been far wrong when he told Esther Newbold that the arrest of so prominent and well-known a person as Miss Hildreth bid fair to develop into an international question.

The charge entered against her was of too grave a nature not to excite and sustain public attention. It certainly appeared to the community at large a very arbitrary and high-handed proceeding that an American citizen could be thus imprisoned at the request of a foreign Government.

Her offence being in no respect a political one, this loophole of escape could not be urged in her favour, for in that case the foreign Government interested in her committal would never have demanded her arrest or expected her surrender into their hands. Doubtless had Miss Hildreth been but a poor workwoman, on whom depended the support of her family, no such strenuous efforts would have been put forth to accomplish her arrest, or a precedence have been created to deal with her position.

But being what she was, and controlling almost unlimited wealth and influence, the case assumed potential proportions, and therefore it was deemed expedient to allow an official inquiry to take place, and to permit the greatest latitude in its operations, even to the calling of witnesses.

To meet this position of affairs great exertions were made on the part of Miss Hildreth's friends, foremost among whom stood Philip Tremain. He had quitted Patricia's presence, at the conclusion of that first interview, as undecided in his own mind as to her guilt or innocence as he had been when he heard of her arrest. Her words, her insinuations, her reticence, had all been so many damning factors against her, while her manner, so light-hearted, so inconsequent, so trivial, were the only elements in her favour.

To Philip, indeed, that very light-heartedness—which he called flippancy—appeared the most suspicious feature of her behaviour. It seemed to him that any woman, no matter how frivolous or hardened, must have given vent to tears and protestations when brought so close to the awful consequences of even supposed guilt; whereas, he found Miss Hildreth even more composed—if that were possible—and more trivial than at their parting in the flies on George Newbold's birthday night.

Good heavens, how long ago that seemed! And what a page of tragedy—or was it melodrama? he had construed since then!

As he walked back to his rooms from Ludlow Street Jail that hot August evening, his mind was very full of Patricia's farewell words:

"Fathom AdÈle Lamien's motives, Philip, and you will lay bare the secret of my arrest."

He had, indeed, in the sudden tumult and agitation of Dick Darling's appearance and communication, lost sight of Mdlle. Lamien's claims upon him; nor was it until Patricia spoke with that enigmatical smile that he remembered them, or paused to consider what was likely to be her attitude in the present complication of affairs.

He had neither heard from or of Mdlle. Lamien since their parting, and while he held himself bound to her by honour, he could not help reflecting upon the fact that no actual engagement existed between them, and that she might so regard their equivocal position, and desire him to understand her silence as an expression of her final refusal of his suit. However that might be, he felt matters had reached such a crisis as to make his seeing her an imperative duty, since, by so doing, he might elucidate the true motive for Patricia's arrest. Recalling AdÈle Lamien's last words, and the note of victory in her voice—"surely this should be triumph enough, even for me, to know that I have won you from the remembrance, nay, from the very presence of Patricia Hildreth"—he felt more than ever convinced that Vladimir Mellikoff had not only been helped by a woman, but by this very woman.

Had not her own words betrayed her jealousy and dislike of her former rival? What more natural than that she should join issue with Count Mellikoff, and play into his hands, not realising perhaps the nature of the train she set alight, or the gravity of the consequences?

Was she not a Russian, and had not Mellikoff himself enlightened him regarding the system of that secret police, whose ranks were reinforced by members of one's own household! According to the Count's black note-book, the very people who ate your bread, who clasped your hand in friendship, who instructed your children, were, one and all—if Russian—banded against you, and ready to strike at you in the dark at the word of command.

Separated from Mdlle. Lamien, and freed from the dominating influence of her personality, Mr. Tremain realised how little his own volition had had to do with his offer of marriage to her.

In looking back at their interview, it seemed to him he had been possessed by some demon of evil who urged him on to his doom; and under whose specious reasoning and cunning insinuations, his own stronger sense and will had become but passive agents.

How gladly would he not now welcome any honourable means of escape from the light fetters that bound him! He knew this, and acknowledged it frankly; even while he also realised that, were he again to stand before AdÈle Lamien, and listen to her low suggestive voice, and look upon her strangely familiar face, he would again yield to her influence as he had yielded before, and be subjugated by that same nameless something, to which he had succumbed before. It was not a pleasant position for any man to accept, and yet he was obliged to accept it from its very uncontrovertibleness.

He walked all the way from Ludlow Street to his up-town chambers with such reflections for his only companions; it was not to be wondered at, therefore, that he felt himself out of tune with his surroundings, or that the light-hearted gaiety apparent in those he met, whose labours over for the day, were evidently on pleasure bent, jarred upon him as exuberant examples of positive callousness. Just so would they laugh and smile and jest, even though the worst predictions came true; and she, counted guilty, had already set sail across the ocean of destiny to meet her fate—alone, in a land where neither his skill nor his love could avail her anything. He reached his rooms at last, exhausted in body and mind; he found them in the most scrupulous order, Harris, the invaluable, having reduced everything to the level of every-day commonplace. Not a trace of last night's emotional interview remained, even Miss Dick's little glove had been neatly folded and lay upon the table, with the faded rose-bud from her corsage placed on top of it. With a sigh, Mr. Tremain threw himself down upon a couch drawn up against an open window, and passed his hand wearily over his forehead. The silence and coolness and half darkness were absolute rest and refreshment to him after the heat and glaring sunshine, and conflicting experiences of the day; it was a physical relief to sink into a state of semi-apathy and to pass from the tense excitation of feeling into a corresponding insensibility.

Philip could not have told how long he remained in this state of suspended activity; he was aroused at length by the slamming to of the heavy outer door, and with this ordinary sound he reawakened to the exigencies of the immediate situation. He got up wearily and struck a match, not with any definite object in view, but because he felt he must be doing something, and that something could be better accomplished in the light.

The slowly igniting candles on his writing-table threw but a faint aureola into the darkness, sufficient, however, to reveal to Philip's eyes the pile of unopened letters, across the topmost one of which was written that under-scored immediate.

He took it up indifferently. "It is Mainwaring's writing," he thought listlessly, and had almost a mind to put it by until a more propitious moment—until he had written that letter to AdÈle Lamien demanding an interview, upon the wording of which it had taken him so long to decide. John Mainwaring's communication could not possibly be of such importance as to demand instant attention; it had waited several days as it was, it might wait a few hours longer without disaster.

And so it is with the wisest and most sagacious of us. We pray on bended knees, and with streaming eyes, for one, only one chance, one opportunity more wherein to work out our salvation; and then when the grace is given we reject it because, forsooth, it comes to us in so accustomed and natural a guise we cannot believe in its efficacy.

How should Philip, hesitating and uncertain, holding Mainwaring's letter in his hand, guess that within the long business envelope lay the solution of all that was most enigmatic to him—the key to what was now a locked book to his perceptions?

Do any of us ever know the exact moment when we stand upon a mental precipice, or realise how far our next step may carry us on to our doom?

He broke the seal at last, more from habit than impatience, and glanced carelessly down at the page as he unfolded it. It was not a long letter, only a few lines written hastily across one side; but had it been a printed folio of engrossing depth it could not have riveted Philip's attention more closely. The candles, flaming up with a sudden assured brilliancy, shone full upon his face, and upon the startled, excited, incredulous expression which spread over it as he read.

It was a long time, many moments, that he stood thus, reading and re-reading John Mainwaring's hurried lines, and when at last he raised his head and threw back his shoulders, he took a long deep breath as of one who, but lately spent and exhausted, sees opening before him a fair plain, smiling and verdant, wherein his tired nature may refresh its weary faculties.

"If this is true," he said, half aloud, "why then——" and finished his soliloquy with a smile.

Half an hour later Mr. Tremain was ringing the bell at Mrs. Newbold's door, and somewhat astonished the servant by the vehemence of his demand for her mistress.

"Tell her I must see her," he said, "it is of the utmost importance;" then he pushed by the maid and made his way to Esther's boudoir.

He found the room empty, though traces of late occupancy were apparent in a book tossed carelessly down on the tumbled cushions of the couch, and a long strip of artistic needlework, in which the needle was standing upright, and a tiny gold thimble, that had fallen down and lay beside a "Kate Greenaway" picture book.

He had scarcely time to note these particulars before the door was opened, and Esther came towards him quickly, looking a little pale and excited, her fair hair tumbled about her face, and the long train of her nÉgligÉ making a slight rustle as she moved. She came close up to him and raised her eyes to his; they caught the reflection of the hopeful gladness therein, and her cheeks flushed suddenly, as she cried, putting out her hand and touching his arm:

"Philip, oh, Philip, you have news—good news?"

Her voice had a ring of expectancy in it that did not escape Philip.

"Esther," he replied, looking down at her steadily, and speaking gravely, "I have come to you at this late hour for one reason only—to ask you one question. Will you be frank and honest in your answer?"

"Ah," she exclaimed, "there are both reproach and reflection in your words. Ask me the question first, Philip, and judge of my veracity by my reply."

She turned and walked to the couch, seated herself, and, taking up the strip of embroidery, examined it attentively.

Mr. Tremain followed her.

"It is all very well, your trying to parry my thrust, Esther; but it is useless. I shall oblige you to give me a direct answer."

He drew up a chair as he spoke, and, as he sat down, took from his pocket a note-case.

"Will you oblige me by reading this letter?" he said, handing her Mainwaring's communication.

She took it with a deprecatory shrug of her shoulders, and read the few lines it contained with an absolutely expressionless face.

"Well?" asked Philip, after several moments had passed.

"Well?" she echoed, folding the letter with exactness and handing it back to him, but avoiding his eyes.

"Esther," he said, bending forward and forcing her to look at him, "Esther, the news contained in that letter is no news to you."

Still she did not reply; she had again taken up the strip of embroidery, and her fingers trembled a little as she drew out the needle. Mr. Tremain put out his hand and took it from her.

"My dear Esther," he said once more, in the same measured tones he had used from his first greeting of her, "you can at least answer a direct question. Did you know of this before?"

"Since you put it in that way—yes," she replied.

"For how long—all the time?"

"Yes, all the time."

"And you have kept it to yourself—why?"

But to this she made no answer.

"Why did you keep it from me?" he asked, more sternly. "Do you think you had any right to do so?"

"Yes, I do," she answered, quickly, stung by the reproach in his voice. "I think so still. A promise should always be sacred."

"A promise—and to whom?"

"If you consider that a necessary question, I do not," she answered, with a touch of asperity in her voice. "You surely have lost somewhat of your customary acumen, Philip, to ask it."

"Then let me put it in another form," he replied, not in the least disturbed by her show of temper. "Did you promise—her?"

She looked at him for a moment, before she spoke, and the rebellious blood dyed her cheeks scarlet, her blue eyes flashed.

"I am not compelled to answer you," she said mutinously, "but I will do so. Yes, I promised her."

"But why, Esther, why? What induced you to make so absurd a promise? And, having made it, why, when such extraordinary circumstances arose, did you still keep your lips closed? Why did you not tell me that evening, when I came to you, and when you were in such grief and anxiety? Surely you must have known it would have greatly simplified matters."

But Mrs. Newbold was obstinately silent. She shut her lips firmly together and looked at Philip beneath a decided frown.

"Do you mean to tell me," he continued, a trifle impatiently, "that you could believe such a matter was not of vital importance? Do answer me, Esther, I beg; what motive can I have save to help——"

"Oh, if you will look at it in that light," interrupted Mrs. Newbold, quickly, "why then I must say, I don't see what great difference your having known this would have made. It couldn't stop the arrest, you know."

"I know nothing of the kind," he replied shortly; "I am not at all sure that it might not have done so. It is always far more difficult to rectify a blunder than to prevent one. I cannot but feel that you have treated me badly in this matter, Esther; at such a time and under such circumstances the utmost candour should have been shown."

He did not speak angrily, but with so much of sadness in his voice, Esther felt compunction stealing over her and absorbing her late vehemence and impatience.

"I should much prefer your being angry with me, Philip," she said, wistfully, "or that you shook me; it's much more awful to see you look so hurt and pained. But can't you believe me, can't you understand? It was her wish—her demand—from the very beginning. She made me solemnly swear that no one should know—least of all—you."

"Ah, yes—I least of all," he replied, half sadly. "Very well, my dear Esther, I will ask you no more questions. You shall not be tempted further to break your promise. Let us only hope that this unfortunate secrecy may not in the end prove our greatest stumbling-block. I do not see the way any clearer before me because of this unexpected document, but I shall do my best to use it to our advantage. After all, what a truly womanly bit of finesse it was—and is!"

As Philip spoke the door was again thrown open, and Dick Darling came in, followed by little Marianne carrying a basket filled with roses. She ran up to her mother, holding out the basket to her, and crying:

"They've only just come, Mumsey. Perkins brought them up himself. Oh, they do smell puffeckly 'licious!"

Esther took the flowers from her little daughter's hand.

"You can guess whom they are for," she said to Philip, smiling a little. "Dick and I intend taking them early to-morrow morning."

Mr. Tremain took up one of the fragrant blossoms, and, bending down towards Esther, said, in a half undertone:

"And is Miss Dick also a sharer in this secret?"

Esther shook her head.

"Not through me," she answered.

"And Mainwaring, how did he become a conspirator?"

"I do not know," she replied, looking down again. "I do not know—how should I?"

He made no answer for a moment, during which his eyes never left the downcast face before him.

"Good-bye," he said simply, at last, and including Miss Darling in his leave-taking by a half bow, passed out of the room, carrying the red rose-bud with him.

It was a distinct source of pleasure to him, as he contemplated the little flower, to remember for whom its sister roses were destined. The tiny blood-red blossom seemed to put him in touch once more with his old life—that life which antedated his visit to the Folly—when AdÈle Lamien was still unknown to him.