A brilliant sunshine poured into the terrace room where the Ravenspurs usually breakfasted. An innovation in the way of French windows led on to a tessellated pavement bordered with flowers on either side and ending in the terrace overlooking the sea.

A fresh breeze came from the ocean; the thunder of the surf was subdued to a drone. In the flowers a number of bees were busy, bees whose hives were placed against the side of the house. They were Vera's bees and there were two hives of them. Vera attended to them herself; they knew her and she was wont to declare that in no circumstances would they do her any harm. That was why, as Geoffrey dryly put it, she never got stung more than once a week.

"I believe one has been arguing with you now," Geoffrey laughed.

He was standing in the window as he spoke. He and Vera were the first two down. The girl was on the pavement gravely contemplating the palm of her right hand.

"No, indeed," she said. "And, anyway, it was my own fault."

"Irish," Geoffrey cried. "That makes the second since Monday. Let me see."

He took the little pink palm in his own brown hands.

"I can't see the spot," he said. "Does it hurt much?"

"A mere pin prick, dear. I suppose you can get innoculated against that sort of thing. I mean that you can be stung and stung until it has no effect at all."

"Even by bees that know you and never do you any harm," Geoffrey laughed. "But I dare say you are right. Five years ago when we had that plague of wasps Stenmore, the keeper, and myself destroyed over a hundred wasps' nests in one season. I must have been stung nearly a thousand times. After the first score I never noticed it; was not so bad as the touch of a nettle."

"What! Has Vera been arguing with the bees again?"

The question came fresh and clear from behind the hives. Marion stood there, making a fair picture indeed in her white cotton dress. There was no shade of trouble in her eyes. She met Geoffrey's glance squarely.

Her hand rested on his shoulder with a palpably tender squeeze.

It was the only kind of allusion she made to last night's doings. She might not have had a single care or sorrow in the world. She seemed to take almost a childlike interest in the bees, the simple interest of one who has yet to be awakened to the knowledge of a conscience. Geoffrey had never admired Marion more than he did at this moment.

"Marion is afraid of my bees," Vera said.

Marion drew away shuddering from one of the velvety brown insects.

"I admit it," she said. "They get on one's clothes and sting for pure mischief. And I am a sight after a bee has been operating upon me. If I had my own way, there would be a fire here some day and then there would be no more bees."

They trooped into breakfast, disputing the point cheerfully. It was impossible to be downcast on so perfect a morning. Even the elders had discarded their gloom. Ralph Ravenspur mildly astonished everybody by relating an Eastern experience apropos of bees.

"But they were not like these," he concluded. "They were big black bees and their honey is poisonous. It is gathered from noxious swamp flowers and, of course, is only intended for their own food. Even those bees——"

The speaker paused, as if conscious that he was talking too much. He proceeded with his breakfast slowly.

"Go on," said Marion. "I am interested."

"I was going to say," Ralph remarked in his croaking voice, "that even those bees know how to protect themselves."

It was a lame conclusion and Marion said so. Geoffrey glanced at his uncle. As plainly as possible he read on the latter's face a desire to change the conversation.

It was sufficiently easy to turn the talk into another channel, and during the rest of the meal not another word came from Ralph Ravenspur. Once more he was watching, watching for something with his sightless eyes.

And Geoffrey was watching Marion most of the time. She was gentle and gay and sweet as ever, as if strong emotions and herself had always been strangers. It seemed hard to recall the stirring events of the night before and believe that this was the same girl. How wonderfully she bore up for the sake of others; how bravely she crushed her almost overwhelming sorrow.

She stood chatting on the pavement after breakfast. She was prattling gayly to Geoffrey, as the other gradually vanished on some mission or another. Then her face suddenly changed; her grasp on Geoffrey's arm was almost convulsive.

"Now then," she whispered. "Let us get it over."

Geoffrey strolled by her side along the terrace. They came at length to a spot where they could not be seen from the house. Marion turned almost defiantly.

"Now I am going to speak," she whispered.

"Not if it gives you any pain," said Geoffrey.

"My dear Geoffrey, you don't want to hear my explanation!"

"Not if it causes you the least pain or annoyance. I couldn't do it."

Marion laughed. But there was little of the music of mirth in her voice.

"Never be it said again that man is a curious creature," she said. "You find me down in the vaults of the castle at midnight mixed up with murderers and worse; you compel me to disclose my identity and take me prisoner; you force me to plead for mercy and silence. And now you calmly say you don't want to know anything about it! Geoffrey, are you indifferent to myself and my future that you speak like this?"

Geoffrey laid his hand on the speaker's arm tenderly.

"Marion," he said, "it is because I think so highly of you and trust you so implicitly that I am going to ask no questions. Can you be any the worse because you are bound by some tie to that woman yonder? Certainly not. Rest assured that your secret is safe in my hands."

"But I must tell you certain things, Geoff. There is some one who comes to the castle, a friend of Uncle Ralph's, who is an enemy of this—of Mrs. May's. I don't know whether you know the man—his name is Tchigorsky?"

No muscle of Geoffrey's face moved.

"I fancy I have heard the name," he said. "When does he come here?"

"I—I don't know. Secretly and at night, I expect. Oh, if I could only tell you everything! But I cannot, I dare not. If this Mr. Tchigorsky would only go away! I fear that his presence here will eventually endanger Uncle Ralph's life. You may, perhaps, give him a hint to that effect. Between Mrs. May and Tchigorsky there is a blood feud. It has been imported from Tibet. I can't say any more."

"And you interfered to save the life of others?"

"Yes, yes. Some day you may know everything, but not yet. I am endangering my own safety, but I cannot sit down and see crime committed under my very eyes. It is all a question of an ancient secret society and a secret religion as old as the world. Tchigorsky has certain knowledge he has no right to possess. Don't press me, Geoff."

"My dear girl, I am not pressing you at all."

"No, no. You are very good, dear old boy. Only get Tchigorsky out of the way. It will be better for us all if you do."

Geoffrey murmured something to the effect that he would do his best. At the same time, he was profoundly mystified. All he could grasp was that Marion was bound up with Mrs. May in ties of blood, the blood of ancient Tibet.

"I'll do my best," he said, "though I fear that my best will be bad. Tell me, do you ever see this Mrs. May by any chance?"

"Oh! no, no! I couldn't do that. No, I can't see her."

Geoffrey began to talk about something else. When at length he and Marion parted she was sweet and smiling again, as if she hadn't a single trouble in the world.

For a long time Geoffrey lounged over the balcony with a cigarette, trying to get to the bottom of the business. The more he thought over it, the more it puzzled him. And how could he broach the matter of Tchigorsky without betraying Marion?

Ralph Ravenspur was in his room smoking and gazing into space. As Geoffrey entered he motioned him into a chair. He seemed to be expected.

"Well?" Ralph said. "You have something to say to me. You look surprised, but I know more than you imagine. So Tchigorsky is in danger, eh? Well, he has been in danger ever since he and I took this black business on. We are all in danger for that matter. Marion does not know what to do."

"Uncle, you know there is some tie between Marion and Mrs. May."

"Certainly I do. It is the crux of the situation. And Marion is to be our dea ex machina, the innocent goddess in the car to solve the mystery. But I am not going to tell you what that relationship is."

"Marion hates and loathes the woman, and fears her."

"Fears her! That is a mild way of putting it. Never mind how, I know what Marion was talking to you about on the terrace. Suffice it that I do know. So last night's danger was not ours, but Tchigorsky's."

"So Marion said, uncle."

"Well, she was right. Tell her that Tchigorsky is profoundly impressed and that he is going away; in fact, has gone away. Tchigorsky is never going to be seen at Ravenspur Castle any more. Are you, Tchigorsky?"

At the question the inner door opened and a figure stepped out. It was one of the natives that Geoffrey had seen in the hollow of the cliffs that eventful day. He could have sworn to the man anywhere—his stealthy glance, his shifty eye, his base humility.

"Tchigorsky has disappeared?" Ralph demanded.

The man bowed low, then he raised his head and, to Geoffrey's vast surprise, gravely and solemnly winked at him.

"Never mind," he said. "How's this for a disguise, Master Geoffrey?"

It was Tchigorsky himself.