In a quiet, even tone Lyveden was talking.

The pleasant voice went steadily on, now reciting, now commenting, now lending argument, a cool dispassionate gravity that forced the ear. Facts were so clearly stated, conclusions so reasonably drawn, points so firmly made—all without a trace of emotion, yet seriously offered in the most conspicuous good faith—that it was almost impossible to realize that the speaker was insensible. But that is the way of brain-fever….

The voice faltered and stopped.

Fervently Miss French prayed that it and the frantic brain might rest from their labours. She wanted desperately to think—to be mistress of her thoughts—but, so long as the voice prevailed, the impression that she was being addressed prevented her, first because it was so vivid, and then because of its importunity.

It was half an hour since Sir Willoughby Sperm's car had rolled down the curling avenue and slipped past the tall lodge-gates. If all went well, another fortnight would elapse before the great specialist saw the patient again.

The silence continuing, Valerie fell to wondering what the two weeks would bring forth. That the fever would presently abate, and the ex-officer be spared his life, seemed highly probable. In fact, Valerie steadily refused to consider that he might weaken and die. What she was eternally asking was what would happen when the engine of the brain, at present running free, was once more engaged with the system it was used to control. Would the coupling break suddenly, and her man go an idiot for life? That she could not believe. Or would the old balance be restored, perfect as ever? There was doubt in the doctor's eyes. Was he, then, to wake stumbling upon that No Man's Land which lies between sense and idiocy? And, if so, how were his trembling steps to be guided aright? Carefully she started to weigh Sir Willoughby's words….

"What concerns me most is how to deal with his condition of mind when the fever has run its course. From what I've seen, and from what Heron has told me, I'm satisfied that it is vital that Gramarye should never again enter into his life. That park, or estate, or whatever it is, had taken such an unhealthy hold upon his imagination, that he was half-way to insanity. If Gramarye is permitted again to take the helm…. Well, the ship is half-way across—half-way across those narrow straits which divide reason from lunacy. We've got to take the helm and put it over just as hard as ever we can. You understand? In a word, if, for instance, Major Lyveden were to revisit Gramarye, I think the game would be up. That, of course, can't happen. But it is, in my opinion, of the highest importance, not only that no reference to the place should be made before him, but that we should do our utmost to direct his attention to other matters. We can't expunge the last four months from his memory—I wish we could. Half the asylums in England would be empty if we could do that. But we can avert our eyes from the record, and we can try to avert his."

'Try to avert his.' How? Anthony was not an infant, to be beguiled with a rattle when he cried for a blade. And if Gramarye was proposing 'again to take the helm,' who was to stop her? Had Miss French put that question to Sir Willoughby, he would have replied, "Yourself." For that reason she had not asked him. Again and again he had insisted that, if the mischief was to be mended at all, it would be at her hand….

There were times when the thought terrified her, when the panic fear of the condemned sat in her eyes. For Valerie knew it was just. It was she who had brought a gallant gentleman to this pass—she who had smashed the exquisite wonder of melody their hearts had danced to—she who had hacked asunder the silken bridge of love and sent her lover into the arms of Gramarye.

Gramarye!

Her solitary visit to the park stood out of the girl's memory like a snow-covered peak, vivid and frozen. There was no mercy there. What was far worse, there was an unearthly appeal. Flesh and blood were one thing, but a wild mystery of woodland, the desolate grandeur of a ruined park, the majestic havoc of a proud estate—these were another matter. Looking upon her rival's face, she found it notable…. Valerie set her white teeth. That its beauty was a mask hiding some dreadful influence, made her heart faint within her….

Yet, if this fainted, it always revived. Valerie French was well-plucked. If it was ordained that she should fight with Black Magic, with Black Magic she would fight. It was her own fault…. It was typical of the girl that the fact that she had already paid very heavily never once occurred to her. She had called the tune without asking how much it would cost. That the piper's bill was so long was due to her recklessness. She did not dispute the account.

For the hundredth time she wondered what line Gramarye would take….

It seemed, mercifully, that the fell influence of the estate was not to have things all its own way. While the sick man in his delirium talked much of Gramarye, he spoke of Valerie too—frequently. For hours together, sometimes, he dwelt upon their love. As a rule, he debated with himself whether it was fair to her to let her see him again. (Listening to these heart-searchings, Valerie's heart burned within her.) Then he would call his Sealyham and speak to him of the lady, asking if she were not wonderful and a sight for sore eyes. "When she calls you, Patch, aren't you proud of your name? And she took your head in her hands to-day. I saw her. Such sweet, pretty hands…. And you looked in her eyes, Patch, and then you licked her nose—very gently, like a good little dog…." Then, again, Anthony's life as a footman was often remembered. Mr. and Mrs. Bumble were gratefully discussed. The Alisons—George especially—figured constantly. Even his life in the Army was sometimes mentioned, and other older days, hard to identify…. Gramarye held a good hand—undoubtedly: but there were other cards in the pack.

The door opened noiselessly, and a fresh-faced nurse stole into the darkened room. Valerie and she exchanged whispers, and, after another glance at the silent figure upon the bed, the lady of Bell Hammer gave place to the professional and made her way slowly downstairs.

* * * * *

It was past three o'clock of a sullen March afternoon when Mr. Peter
Every dismissed his parade.

The men turned away listlessly, hollow-eyed.

Only the little lame engineer said anything at all, and that was an inaudible communication to the three great sailors, whose hearing was gone. Gloomily the latter watched his fingers stumble over their rude translation of Every's last words….

"So there you are. Colonel Winchester's gone. Major Lyveden's too ill to ever come back. Without the authority of one of these two, not another penny can be spent on this estate. Obviously the work's got to stop. I know you don't want wages, but you've got to live…. And I've come, as Major Lyveden's friend, to tell you this before the Law steps in—as it will—and does it more bluntly.

"I know it's rough on you, and I'm devilish sorry, but it's got to be faced…. And, as I say, I'm commissioned to offer you all your passage to Canada and fifty pounds apiece to tide you over there till you can get going.

"You chaps think it over.

"I'm staying at The Rose at Girdle, and those who want to accept, report to me there to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. Then I'll tell you the details and fix everything up. Right."

Leaning against the trunk of a fallen beech, Every watched his little audience wade through the weathered fringe of bracken and turn on to the rough brown road that dipped and curled into the heart of Gramarye.

The droop of their shoulders, the heaviness of their steps, the silence in which they went, trumpeted misery. Anything, however, was better than the dull sightless stares with which the news that their work was over had been received. Every, who was no coward, had been prepared for suspicion, defiance, violence. Instead, his service of the warrant had been accepted without a word. He had no shred of authority, but not the slightest attempt had been made to call his bluff. It had been, in fact, a painful walk-over. The seven labourers seemed to expect a death-blow. When it fell, they met it with the apathy of despair. Every felt as though he were sentencing a bunch of forest ponies to the pits, and the dumb hopelessness of their demeanour plucked at his young heart-strings….

For two or three minutes after the little group had passed out of sight the young man stood motionless. Presently his eyes wandered from the trail up a rude bank, all starred with primroses, through the dim breathless magic of a pinewood on to a peering screen of new-born leaves, pale-faced and trembling. After a moment's rest, they turned southward to where the lean brown road went paving a deep corridor, straight, silent, its black walls towering. Distance and gloom lent these a grim symmetry, suggestive of duress; above, a grey ribbon of sky issued a stony comfort, such as prisoners use…. With a shiver, Every turned away his head. To the north the ground fell sharply, and the cut of the road vouchsafed a glimpse of what it led to—woods, woods, woods, swelling, rising, tumbling, bolstering one another up, shouldering one another aside, some with their limbs still bare, others laced with the pale pinafore of spring, all of them dense and orderless, composite regiments of timber, where squire and skip-jack stood back to back, and the whelps of both thrust and quarrelled for a place in the bulging ranks.

Every became suddenly conscious of a silence more tense and death-like than he had ever dreamed of….

Then a wind breathed—miles away … to the north. He could hear the breath coming, a mere whimper among the tree-tops. The whimper became a whine…. Reaching the pinewood, the note slid into a moan, that rose slowly to a thin wail as the breath fled up the corridor with the towering walls. The wail fell to a sigh….

With straining ears, the man waited for this to fade….

"Mopping up?" said a quiet voice.

Every started violently and turned right about.

Ten paces distant, within the shadow of the beechwood, was a big upstanding grey, with ears pricked, vigilant. Square in the saddle sat a girl, in a habit of dark blue cloth. So dim was the light that Every could not distinguish her features, but he marked how the eyes burned out of a pale face and noted the glint of copper beneath the hard felt hat.

"Mopping up?" she repeated quietly, but this time there was a silkiness in the tone that put the man on his guard.

"That's one way of puttin' it," he said lightly. "I'm sort of windin' up the Company."

"The Garden of Eden Limited," flashed the girl. "History repeats itself." For a moment she hesitated. Then—"Where's Adam?" she said carelessly.

"Done a bunk," said Every, with no idea of what she meant. "Are you a creditor?"

Miss Strongi'th'arm regarded him.

"Either," she said coldly, "you are a liar or else a fool."

Every stared at her speechless…. After a moment the girl shrugged her shoulders. Then a riding-boot flashed, and the grey sprang forward.

As she pulled up beside him—

"By what authority do you dismiss these men?"

Every looked up steadily into the angry eyes. Then he took off his hat.

"Forgive me," he said quietly, "but by what authority do you ask?"

For a second he thought she would strike him. The cold fury of the pale peaked face, the haughty set of the lips, the blaze of the great brown eyes, heralded violence….

Every never moved.

With a sudden movement AndrÉ turned her head to stare into the distance. At length—

"I've lost all I had in this estate—this venture … and a lot that—that wasn't mine," she said slowly. "Is that good enough?"

Before the weariness of her tone, Every's resentment went down with a rush.

"I'm most awfully sorry," he said gently. "I'd no idea of this. I don't think any one has. Of course, if I'd known for a moment that you were—er—interested, I shouldn't have dreamed of moving in the matter without your consent." He hesitated. Then— "But surely you can recover something. I mean, the place can be sold, and I'm sure the solicitors would see to it that you——"

AndrÉ gave a dry laugh.

"I hardly think they'd allow my claim," she said shortly.

Every swallowed before replying.

"You could try," he said desperately.

"Fool," said the girl contemptuously. "It's not a question of money. It's a question of men." And with that she fell to whistling under her breath.

Every decided that she was mad.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he said stiffly. "What I'm doing, I'm doing with the approval of Mr. Plowman, solicitor to Colonel Winchester—he's the owner of this park: and, if you apply——"

"Yes, I know that," said AndrÉ quietly. "But for this park, I should be Mrs. Winchester."

The scales fell from Every's eyes. The picture of the giant, of whom Plowman had told him, pacing a madman's cage, rose up before him, and a great wave of pity for his companion swept into his heart. It occurred to him suddenly that, but for the grace of God, Valerie French would stand by this strange girl's side….

"Think you understand, don't you?" sneered AndrÉ. She laughed shortly. "You've got a lot to learn yet. First of all, my friend, this isn't a park. It's a temple. The very place you're standing on is holy ground. And those clowns you're sacking are priests—sworn to moil and toil for Gramarye until she's sucked the brains out of their heads. And you're spoiling her game … I should go carefully, if I were you, my friend. And if you get safe out of her to-day, I shouldn't come back—if you can help it… I don't want to be rude, but she's brought down bigger game than you—far bigger…. And they were her favourites."

"I'm not afraid," said Every.

"Of course you aren't. If you were, you'd be safe. If Samson had feared Delilah, he wouldn't have lost his eyes." She broke off and shrugged her shoulders. Then—"And now, if you're satisfied with my authority to question you, what's yours for dismissing these men?"

"I have none," said Every. "But the chap who was here—Lyveden——"

"Yes?" breathed AndrÉ.

"Well, he's too ill to——"

With a moan, the girl dropped the reins, flung back her head, and clapped her hands to her temples.

"I knew it," she wailed, "I knew it! First Richard Winchester, and then Anthony … my darling … Anthony Lyveden …"

Every stood spellbound. The tragedy had taken a new—a frightful turn. Valerie—trustful, unsuspecting Valerie—was hideously involved. He wondered if Lyveden delirious would babble of this strange girl. If he did…. And when he recovered—what then?

Hurriedly he reviewed the position.

Under Dr. Heron's direction, Lyveden had been drugged here, at Gramarye, and brought to Bell Hammer. The whole object of his removal was to smash his infatuation for Gramarye, so that he might feel free to worship Valerie. On their joint love the whole thing was founded. Everything had been arranged on that basis. And now … if Lyveden had been consulted, perhaps he would not have come—not because of Gramarye, but because of a girl—a girl with auburn hair….

"Where is he?"

The words cut his reflections with a clean slash.

"Who?"

AndrÉ Strongi'th'arm's eyes narrowed.

"The high priest," she said.

"D'you mean Major Lyveden?"

"I do."

Every paled. Whatever might be the other's standing, with him Valerie came first. It might be rough on the girl, but that could not be helped, and would eventually, he supposed, be mended. One thing was plain. Not at any price must she go to Bell Hammer.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to tell you."

"Why?"

"If you're thinking of visiting him, I assure you——"

"I wish to know where Major Lyveden is."

Every drew himself up.

"I'm very sorry," he said, "but until I've seen those in charge of him, and have their permission to tell you——"

"I have a right to know."

Every winced. Then he looked up boldly.

"As Colonel Winchester's fiancÉe?" he said.

AndrÉ caught her breath. Then she bowed her head.

"As a most miserable woman," she said brokenly. "Somewhere it says,
'From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.'
… Well, it's as one of those outcasts … one of those hopeless
double bankrupts——"

"Stop!" cried Every, aghast. "Stop! I don't want to hear…. Listen. I'll be at Girdle till Friday. That day I'll leave a note for you at the inn, with Lyveden's address inside."

He had, I suppose, some vague idea of getting to Hampshire before her.

For a second the girl stared at him with knitted brows. Then—

"You appear," she said coldly, "to be not only a fool, but a poisonous fool. After all, if you won't tell me, I suppose there are other ways…." She picked up the reins. "And so you're a friend of Major Lyveden's? To tell you the truth, I shouldn't have thought he'd have had much use for you."

With her words, the hunter moved forward…. Dazedly Every watched the two pass at a walk into the gloomy corridor and dwindle slowly to a mere blur of blue and grey under the shadow of the towering walls. At last distance and dusk swallowed them, and he could see them no more.

By the evening of the following Thursday the young man's work was gone, and by ten o'clock on Friday morning his car had left Girdle and was flying up Gallowstree Hill.

Provision had been made for the men; the horses in the stables at Gramarye had been disposed of. He had only come, with Valerie's approval, out of sheer pity for helpless men and beasts. His unexpected interview with AndrÉ Strongi'th'arm worried him sorely. He was convinced that between her and Anthony there had been a serious affair. Himself devoted to Valerie, this made him furious; remembering her devotion to Lyveden, it scared him. If, after all that had happened, Valerie was to find, not only that her cake was dough, but that it was not even her cake, but another's, Every verily believed the shock would send her out of her mind. The mortification alone would be enough to unhinge any woman….

The sight of Anthony's cottage at the edge of the park reminded him of his proposal to recover his tobacco-pouch. He had laid it down on the tree-trunk whilst he was addressing the men that memorable Monday afternoon.

Not daring, for fear of thieves, to leave the car upon the highway, he drove her gently on to the wasted track. Even then he was not comfortable, for she could be seen from the road. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to risk it. He could not drive to the spot, for from here, for a furlong or so, the road was in ribbons. They seemed to have been hauling timber. The only thing to do was to be as quick as he could and hope for the best. Going fast, he should be back again in twenty minutes….

There had blown a gale in the night, and Every was not surprised to find one of the tall dark pillars of the gigantic corridor fallen across the lean brown road. It was his haste in surmounting this obstacle that was responsible for the simple but painful fracture of his left leg. The trunk was slippery, and he had jumped untimely to save a fall. Two stout boughs had been waiting, and the rest was easy….

Now, Peter Every was, as we know, no coward; but when, lying there, he reflected that, thanks to his efforts, the estate was now deserted, he became extremely uneasy. And presently, when he remembered Miss Strongi'th'arm's words, he broke into a cold sweat.

'If you get safe out of her to-day, I shouldn't come back—if you can help it.'

* * * * *

"I'm told," said Anthony weakly, "that I'm at Bell Hammer."

Lady Touchstone smiled and nodded.

"That's right," she said gently. "And Valerie should be here to welcome you, but she's asleep. So you must make shift with me."

The truth was, Valerie French had broken down. The strain of waiting and watching for the hour for which she longed, yet dreaded, had proved too much. Only the day before she had fainted suddenly, and, honestly glad of an excuse, the local doctor had ordered her to bed forthwith. Valerie had obeyed dumbly. She knew that she had come to the end of her tether, and so to that of her wit; and since, to deal at all hopefully with Anthony's return to consciousness, her understanding must be on tiptoe, she knew that she was better away. If the change was to come before she was fit for duty, it could not be helped. In her present condition she was, she felt, worse than useless.

Two hours later Anthony had tried to sit up, failed, looked dazedly about him, and when the fresh-faced nurse stole to his side, asked first for some water and then, shakily, to be told where he was. He had promised, in return for the answer, to ask no more questions, but to go quietly to sleep. This promise he had immediately broken by asking anxiously for news of his dog. Learning that Patch was below, and well and happy, he had spoken no more. After eighteen hours he had awaked, greatly refreshed, to find himself the cynosure of three pairs of eyes. These were all kindly and full of cheer. Two pairs were contributed respectively by the nurse and Lady Touchstone, while the third was set in the face of an overgrown cherub, who smelt agreeably of Harris tweed and was gently furbishing his pince-nez with an enormous handkerchief.

"This," continued Lady Touchstone, "is Dr. Gilpin." The cherub grinned reassuringly. "He's extremely pleased with you, and, when you're better, I think you'll return the compliment."

"I've been ill," said the patient stupidly.

The cherub nodded.

"Gave us quite a turn once or twice," he said, smiling. "But you're all right now. And if you'll promise to obey orders, I'll have you out of bed in a fortnight."

Anthony's face fell. Then—

"I'm in your hands, sir," he said. "And I'm very, very grateful for all you've done." His eyes turned to Lady Touchstone. "And you. I don't understand anything yet," he added plaintively.

"Good," said the doctor. "Now we know where we are." He took out his watch. "If you would like it, you and your hostess can have a little chat—for ten minutes only—just to clear matters up. Then Nurse Ford will take over."

"Please," said Anthony.

A moment later the two were alone.

"I don't know how I come to be here," said the patient slowly, "but I'm afraid it must have been a terrible inconvenience and—and expense. You know I've no money."

Subduing an inclination to burst into tears—

"On the contrary," said Lady Touchstone, "you're quite respectably off. Since you've been ill, you've come into money—more than enough to pay for everything. So don't let that worry you."

She felt that it was not the moment to tell him that he was virtually a millionaire.

For a moment the man did not speak. Then—

"How did I get here?" he said.

"You may well ask," was the reply. "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it possible for George Alison to lift a man of your inches and carry him single-handed right from the front door. I know he rowed for Cambridge, but, all the same, it was the act of a fool. And I told him so. Of course, he only grinned. You know that inane, irresistible grin of his when he's done something he knows is——"

"George Alison?" said Anthony. "George Alison? How on earth——" He stopped short and started up on an elbow. "What month is it?"

"April," said Lady Touchstone. "And now lie down again, there's a dear boy…. And why shouldn't Alison have——"

"But if it's April—— Good God!" he cried hoarsely, raising a trembling hand. "D'you mean to say I've lain here in this house for six months?"

The woman's heart leaped into her mouth.

"And why not?" she said quietly. "I know a case of a man who lay unconscious for over two years—the result of a fall hunting. And when he came to——"

She stopped to peer at the patient.

Then she rang for the nurse—-instantly.

Anthony had fainted.

* * * * *

Thus fell that formidable position upon whose delicate reduction all the science of physic, the love of women, the wisdom of friends, had been feverishly concentrated by day and night for nearly three weeks.

Chance and a woman's instinct had done the trick. As by a miracle the hopeless had come to pass. The helm had been put hard over, and the craft had answered as sweetly as any swish-tailed circus nag. Gramarye and all her works, if not forgotten, had in the twinkling of an eye become the fabric of a dream—mere relics of a fantastic age for a sane mind to marvel at.

For two or three days after the momentous interview Anthony said very little. When he had again seen Lady Touchstone, and the two—blind leading the blind—had satisfactorily fixed the very date of his collapse, George Alison was sent for. Carefully schooled, the latter spent a fruitful five minutes by the sick man's side. Upon the third day came Valerie….

The girl was exalted. Gratitude had set the crown upon the glory of her array. No one had ever seen her look so beautiful. Out of the furnace the fine gold had come refined, dazzling.

My gross pen cannot picture her.

The dark lustre of her hair, the exquisite curve of her lips, her pride of carriage, were things for sonnets. Her small firm hands, the white column of her neck, the colour springing in her cheeks, made three sweet wonders. The style of her was superb. Tall, straight, clean-limbed, her figure remembered graces of a younger age. The simple flowered-silk dress looked as though all who put it on must go in elegance. Silk and satin covered her precious feet. A nosegay of violets, brooched to her gown, echoed the hue, but not the magic of her eyes. Had the poor flowers been blowing still upon their mother bank, all wet with dew, and had a star stooped to prove how sweet they smelled, then, sirs, they should have rendered more faithfully my lady's eyes.

Anthony had wondered when she would come….

A breath of perfume, a swift whisper, the rustle of silk—and there was
Valerie by his side.

"Oh, Valerie!"

Miss French fell upon her knees.

Very gently Lyveden put her hand to his lips. Then he turned away his head and began to cry.

With a bursting heart, Valerie almost gathered him in her arms.

"D'you love me, Anthony?"

By way of answer he just clung to her. At length—

"I'm—I'm sorry, my sweet…. It's—I think it's just because … I love you so much." With an effort he mastered his lips. "And I'm so very sorry, dear, I kissed you like that—the day I went down. I dreamed about it. I dreamed you came to me, and I apologized." With her heart in her mouth, Valerie smoothed his brow. "And you were—so very sweet. You said"—he hesitated—"you spoke so very handsomely."

"I'm so glad, darling."

"And, oh, Valerie,"—he was himself again now—"I've had such a wonderful dream. I've been waiting for you, my darling, before I spoke of it."

"What did you dream, lad?"

"I dreamed that I'd left the Bumbles—I had given notice, you know—and gone, in answer to an advertisement, to a place in the Cotswolds. It's all so real, so vivid, that it's almost impossible to appreciate that it's all a dream. I can remember every detail of the journey—I had Patch with me—down to the faces of my fellow-passengers. A woman with a baby got out at Oxford and left a parcel behind. And I ran after her with it. I can see her scared face now, poor soul, when I touched her on the shoulder…."

The story of the last four months came pelting. Anthony fairly opened his heart. At first, listening to the bare truth told with the confident naÏvetÉ of disbelief, Valerie felt as though she were cheating the blind. After a little, this sense of shabbiness was suddenly supplanted by a perfect torment of apprehension lest Anthony should detect her hypocrisy. Presently, before her breathless interest in the narrative, the girl's uneasiness slipped unremarked away, and, when the door opened and the gentle nurse appeared to part them, she was following the ingenuous recital with unaffected eagerness.

Valerie nodded her acquiescence in the unspoken order, and the nurse withdrew. As the former rose to her feet—

"Ah, must you go, my lady?"

"Till this evening, dear lad."

Anthony sighed fretfully.

"And I've wasted all our precious time with my old dream. I've hardly spoken of you, and there's so much I want to know."

"We've plenty of time, darling. Think of it. Once we never knew when—if, even, we should ever see one another again. Now … Oh, Anthony, we're very rich."

"I am," said Anthony, smiling. "And when you say you are—why, then I feel like a king."

Valerie flung up her head. An instant, and she was singing….

"If I were a queen,
What would I do?
I'd make you a king
And I'd wait upon you—
If I were a queen."

Never melody knew such tenderness. Poor Anthony could not trust himself to speak….

Valerie stooped and laid a soft cheek against his. Then she pressed his hand to her lips.

The next moment she was gone.

* * * * *

When Sir Willoughby Sperm learned of his patient's progress, he struck the words "Major Lyveden" out of his diary. The action cost him exactly one hundred guineas, and the secretary by his side bit her lip. To keep that Saturday free for his visit to Hampshire, she had refused nine appointments. But, if he was a bad business man, Sperm was a good doctor. Anthony was out of the wood. Very well. Considering the nature of the peril with which the wood had been quick, the less the fugitive saw of strange doctors, the better for him. To insist upon the gravity of his late disorder was most undesirable. Besides, if at this juncture a specialist's visit to Bell Hammer could serve any useful purpose, Heron was the man to pay it. It was he who had walked and talked with Lyveden when the latter's brain had been sick. So he alone of the doctors could compare Philip drunk with Philip sober. Happily no such comparison was necessary. Had it been vital, it could not have been made. For the patient to renew the acquaintance of the artist he had met at Gramarye—and that in the person of a distinguished brain specialist—would hardly have conduced to his health of mind. Indeed, from the moment that Anthony had reached Bell Hammer in safety, so far as the inmates of that house were concerned, the very name of Dr. Heron was, by his own advice, religiously forgotten as though the man had never been. It was natural, however, that one who had done so much to arrest the disorder should care to hear how Anthony was faring. By a mutual arrangement the cherubic Dr. Gilpin wrote to the former faithfully three times a week.

Similar, though less frequent, reports were regularly rendered to Mr.
Justice Molehill.

One of these latter I will set out, for it was a wise man that wrote it, and the matter is to the point. I would, sirs, that I could show you the handwriting, so fine and easy to read.

Bell Hammer,
nr. Brooch,
Hants.
April 11th, 1921.

DEAR SIR GILES,

Major Lyveden continues mercifully to make good progress.

I saw him myself yesterday for the first time, and must make haste to confess that I am overjoyed. When I say this, you will understand that he is not only the stranger whom we are helping to the acquisition of a great fortune, but the man whom my niece is delighting to honour. Lyveden is a man of great personal charm and fine character, and I am sure that he will administer his heritage wisely and faithfully, and that he will make Valerie a proud and happy woman. I am glad to say, too, that your memory of his appearance is as true as your judgment. In short, he is a splendid specimen of manhood.

There is, of course, no doubt at all that he is our man, i.e. the only nephew of the late Jonathan Roach. Boldly advancing out of my province, I begged leave to ask him a question or two, to which the most exacting of opponents could not in decency have objected. His replies made me ashamed of the doubts which I never—even officially—harboured.

Of the nature of his brain trouble and of his escape I have already told you. Enough that that wondrous bridge which an Omnipotent Providence threw across the river, while we stood gaping upon the other bank, stands fixed as any rock. As often as he will revisit Gramarye, the patient treads it with a firm, confident step. I do not matter—besides, I must soon return to Rome—but, by my advice, Valerie and those who are and are to be about him are schooling themselves to use this same strange bridge. Future safety, I contend, lies in making it a thoroughfare. So only approached, Gramarye will indeed become 'such stuff as dreams are made on,' and the four months he spent there be 'rounded with a sleep,' for ever.

I have told Major Lyveden the story of the lost will, and of your close interest, to which alone he owes his fortune. His great desire is to thank you personally. My own remissness he forgave in undeservedly generous terms.

I expect to leave for Italy early next week, and while I shall write again before that, I shall hope, if you are then in London, to visit you on my way.

Believe me,
Yours very truly,
JOHN FOREST.

The prelate was not the man to exaggerate. Anthony's recovery went on amain. His state of independence had, as we know, been broached by Lady Touchstone: it was becoming that the true extent of his fortune should be disclosed by Monseigneur Forest himself.

The sick man received the news with some emotion.

He felt as though suddenly a wand had been set in his hand—a wand beneath whose careless touch the shifting flux of wishes must set and crystallize. For more than eighteen months he had "thought in pennies." Henceforth it would be unnecessary to think at all. The spectre of Ways and Means was laid for ever. Often, when his purse had been lightest—when he had been forced to eat sparingly of the cheapest food—he had been used to remember an old fragment of Virgil that he had learned as a boy. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Times without number he had been glad of the tag. And now it had served its turn…. Looking back upon his penury, he could not wish that he had been spared those lean, ill-favoured days. And when, because of these, Monseigneur Forest reviled himself, Lyveden refused to listen, declaring that the experience had been invaluable, and must surely stand the camel in good stead when the time came for him to negotiate the needle's eye. For a prelate to withstand such a contention was more than difficult…. Yet if the patient spoke to the point, it was by accident. His thoughts were elsewhere. Childishly excited, he was wanting to use his wand. Ridiculously enough, his romping brain could not furnish a wish to be converted…. Suddenly an idea came to him. His dog, his little faithful dog, had gone in need of a collar for over nine months….

Patch!

Mercifully the terrier was dumb. Otherwise the prelate's "Bridge of Providence" must have returned unto the air whence it came. As it was, the dog was brought to the sick-room twice every day. The tenderness with which he treated Anthony was wonderful to see. Naturally boisterous, the efforts with which he mastered the frenzy these interviews provoked, were manifest. He knew that Lyveden had been dangerously ill. He knew that he was mending. The twofold consideration set the flame of his devotion flaring. Yet, when he visited his master, the jet must be reduced to a pilot…. The marvel is the dog did not burst. Instead, placed within reach, he would set a quivering foot upon the bed and lick the caressing hand with a touch that would not have broken a bubble. Presently, whimpering with excitement, he would post about the chamber, seeking an object to present to his lord. Of such, the choice which the room afforded was straitly limited, and when for the second time he had selected one of the knobs of a chest of drawers, endeavouring to detach this by dint of biting it off, the fresh-faced nurse was advised of his intention, and a log of wood was procured to be kept in a corner. Thereafter twice a day the billet was brought reverently to the-bedside.

Poor Patch! It was the best his dull wit could devise.

Oh, Patch, could you but see how idle and clumsy is your act, you would hang your small head. Could you perceive the vanity of repetition, your bright brown eyes would fill with tears. Could you be told whence comes the gift which you give Anthony, your little tail would be clapped between your legs…. Yet have I heard tell of a ram caught in a thicket by his horns; of altar steps worn thin by the observance of the same offices; of spikenard that might have been sold and given to the poor….

Sirs, this poor scrap of a dog errs in good company.

The April days slipped by, smiling, or shrill, or tearful, as the mood took them.

A letter which Valerie had received from Peter Every, written and posted at Girdle upon the last day of March, had set her mind at rest about Anthony's stewardship of Gramarye. Apart from the action of the Law, that book had been closed as gently and firmly as mortal man could close it. By the removal of the steward, neither men nor beasts engaged there had been left one penny the worse. The former, indeed, were well out of a bad business. Incidentally, they would very soon be well out of Anthony's way. Never had money been so advantageously spent. Valerie had written to Every a letter of heartfelt thanks.

By the courtesy of the Bumbles, their chauffeur came to Bell Hammer two or three times a week. He did not always see his late colleague, but Alison was no fool, and points were constantly arising upon which Valerie was glad of his advice. It was he who went through Anthony's wardrobe with the utmost care, saying which of the garments he had seen before and which had been acquired since their owner's departure from Hawthorne. The latter were carefully destroyed. Lyveden's few personal effects were subjected to a similar scrutiny and partial destruction. Nothing was left to chance. If George was uncertain, Betty and Anne were sent for. If no one could be sure, whatever it was, the article in question went to the furnace. Never was the high-road of convalescence more faithfully reconnoitred.

Less actively, Lady Touchstone and Forest contributed according to their means. These were substantial. The electric personality of the one, the gentle charm of the other, were better than physic. The one stimulated; the other composed. A twinkling hour of Lady Touchstone's company was like a glass of champagne. A talk with the Monseigneur rivalled the quality of old Madeira. Wisely administered, the wine built up the wasted tissues of the mind. The latter's digestion being sound, Lyveden throve upon the diet. His brain put on weight daily.

So far as his body was concerned, no one had any anxiety at all. Anthony's fine constitution and the open-air life which he had led at Gramarye stood him in splendid stead. So much so, that when, upon St. George's Day, Patch came trotting with a red rose in his mouth, he found the bed empty and his master sitting cheerfully upon a sofa before the fuss and worry of a bright wood fire. It was clear that a new era had begun. Patch dropped the rose and fairly hurled himself at a small log lying conveniently in a corner beside an old prie-Dieu.

* * * * *

A mischievous look came into Valerie's eyes.

"You haven't heard a word," she said, bubbling, "of what I've been saying. You know you haven't."

Anthony laughed guiltily.

"Yes, I have," he protested. "You were saying you'd half a mind to give up having hydrangeas and—and—er—not have them at all," he concluded lamely.

Valerie uttered a little crow of triumph.

"Scandalous," she said. "Simply scandalous. It's no good pretending. I know perfectly well what you were thinking about. You were thinking of Gramarye. That old dream of yours …"

Mark, sirs, how the mighty may fall and how familiarity may breed contempt. Gramarye had lost her sting. Spoiled of her puissance, she had sunk to the level of "Boney"—fare for the ears of children, food for a jest.

"No, I wasn't," said Anthony, smiling. "At least, not directly. I was thinking of an argument the Monseigneur put up about my dream."

"What did he say?"

"Well, his contention was this. You know, if, for instance, a bell rings when you're asleep and dreaming, as likely as not the noise is introduced—not necessarily in the same form—into your dream, isn't it? Very well. That shows the senses are working. The message arrives distorted, but it arrives. Well, he said that in his opinion practically everything that came to pass in my dream was originally suggested by some outside influence. Water being poured into a basin suggests a brook. A sewing-machine becomes a train. The hiss of a burning log escaping steam. So much for the ears. Now for the eyes. A maid helps the nurse to move a sofa—I see timber being hauled. The doctor shakes his thermometer, and there's Winchester wielding an axe…. It's a pretty theory, and the more you study it, the sounder it seems." He crossed his legs and started to fill a pipe. "All the same, I must have a fertile imagination. I think I always had. As a child I was left alone a great deal, and I fancy that helped."

It was a lazy Sunday morning—the fourth in the month of May. John Forest had been gone a month, and Lady Touchstone was properly at church. Greenwich would have told you that it was ten o'clock, and the gorgeous tapestry of Summer was still wrought with the brilliant embroidery of a heavy dew. Lawns, flower-borders, and stiff box charactery sparkled and shone in the hot sunshine. The sky was cloudless: a haze kept to itself the distant promise of the park: there was no wind. The sleepy hum of insects, a rare contented melody, tilted the hat of Silence over that watchman's eyes. The wandering scent of hawthorns offered the faultless day a precious button-hole.

Sitting easily among the cushions of a teak-wood chair, Anthony let his eyes ramble luxuriously over the prospect. In a chaise longue by his side Valerie was engaged in the desultory composition of a letter to her uncle in Rome. Stretched blinking upon the warm flags, Patch watched the two vigilantly for any sign of movement.

"Did I ever have a red-haired nurse?" said Anthony suddenly.

Valerie shook her head.

"No," she said. "You had the same two all the time. Why?"

"I dreamed of a red-haired girl." Valerie sat very still. "AndrÉ, her name was. I met her first in the road… I remember she knew me. She'd been hunting and looked like a Bacchanal. She turned up again later on—one night. I was just going to bed." He frowned at the recollection. "I wonder I didn't chatter about that. I was worried to blazes…."

"That—that's the worst of dreams," said Valerie slowly. "You're impotent."

With a shock she realized that she had written ANDRÉ in capitals in the middle of her letter, and, below it again, BACCHANAL. Casually she scratched out the words till her pen ploughed up the sodden paper.

"It's a wretched feeling," said Anthony. "I dreamt she—cared for me.
And I—I never got there. She had to tell me right out…. Oh,
Valerie, it was awful."

Miss French felt as though her heart had stopped beating. She could have screamed to Anthony to go on. Instead—

"Poor old chap," she said gently.

She had her reward.

"When she saw there was nothing doing, she went…. And then Winchester appeared with Patch, as I was putting her into her car. I remember he called her 'AndrÉ'—that's how I knew her name…. And then he cursed me, because she was his fiancÉe, and she fairly tore him up. Then she chucked down his ring and drove off. There must have been a car leaving Bell Hammer just then. I can hear her changing the gears now." He passed a hand over his eyes. "I can't remember any more, except that Winchester was shouting…."

For a long moment the two sat very still. Then Valerie scrambled to her feet and put her head on one side. Her eyes were just dancing.

"You and your red-haired sirens," she said reproachfully. "And now come along, and I'll pick you a buttonhole."

The cloud poor Peter Every had found so menacing had discharged rain of pure gold. Love had emerged from the shower, refreshed, glistening. The two could not know that, while they passed down the steps into the sunlit flower-garden, a girl with auburn hair was pushing a frantic three-year-old through the Scotch mist of Donegal, and wondering at every bank whether she would have the good fortune to break her neck.

Still, though their rain be golden, clouds beget shadows. If Lyveden responded to Valerie's invitation, he did not rise to her mood. The throwback to Gramarye had set him thinking….

"Valerie," he said slowly, knitting his brows.

The girl had been upon the point of stopping to pick a rose. His serious tone, however, made her look up. The bloom was spared.

"Yes."

"When I went down—in November—there was something wrong. I mean, we were at variance."

With difficulty the girl repressed a shiver.

For a while she had hourly dreaded an allusion to the grim episode. Then, when the weeks went by and none was made, she began, at first feebly, to hope that it was buried. Gradually the hope had swelled into belief. Lately she had made sure that upon the first day, when Anthony had wept in her arms, he and she had been treading upon its grave. And now here it was—like a river full in their path, a swift-flowing treacherous stream which they must ford together. She would have given anything for a moment to collect her thoughts, but Anthony had started across. Already he was up to his knees….

To be frank, she was in a tight place. The issues she had to deal with were clogged. Her treatment of them was to be governed by ruthless premises. Finally, if she made a false step, her fortunes and those of Anthony would be again in the melting-pot.

For an instant her brain zig-zagged. The next moment she had it in hand.

"Yes," she said slowly, "we were. I hoped you'd forgotten. You see, I'm very much ashamed. And, when my eyes were opened, I was just terrified. I felt as if I'd committed murder."

As she spoke, her brain fairly flashed through the rules which must govern this talk.

Everything hinged upon one mighty postulate—that Anthony had collapsed precisely at one-fifteen upon the 16th of November. He had, of course, done nothing of the sort. But that did not matter.

From that hour, for four months and a half, he had lain in a trance. This was the second article, which except Anthony believed, he could not be saved.

Anthony's memory, however, was a faithful servant—not to be tampered with. To reconcile the servant's report with the articles of his faith, a third tenet became essential. This was that what Anthony remembered was the burthen of a dream.

There go the governing principles.

Now for the issues.

Her sudden—perhaps excusable—jealousy of Anne Alison, her barbarous dismissal of Anthony, her quite inexcusable failure to give any reason for such treatment, her subsequent enlightenment by Anne herself—there is the skeleton whose dry bones he and she are to pick over—a gruesome business which has already been dispatched … upon the twentieth day of February, gentlemen, up in the Cotswold Hills. They both remember it perfectly. Yet Valerie must forget it, while Anthony must think it was a dream … must….

Neither by word nor look must Valerie suggest that the highly delicate ground she knows so well has ever been broken before.

Think, sirs, what a slip on her part will do.

It will plainly knock the three precious articles aforementioned into a cocked hat. Thence they will be retrieved to be turned against her—used to her condemnation by Anthony frantic. As for their love, the fragments of this that remain will not be worth taking up….

Anthony passed a hand across his forehead.

"Shall I tell you what I dreamed?"

"Yes," said Valerie.

"I dreamed that you came to me to make it up. And I was afraid. I tried to keep off the subject. I'd come such an awful cropper that I didn't want any more falls. But you would have it out…. And you said—don't laugh—that you'd turned me down because of Anne Alison." He stopped still and looked at her. "What was the real reason?"

Leaning her back against a green box wall, Valerie moistened her lips.
Then—

"It's perfectly true," she said quietly.

Anthony stared.

"What's true?"

"Listen. You remember the meet at Saddle Tree Cross?"

"Yes."

"When we spoke of my 'window,' and you said the spot meant so much to you that you couldn't keep away?"

Anthony nodded.

"D'you remember I said I was going away the next day?"

"Perfectly."

"It fell through, and I didn't go. There wasn't time to tell you, so I went—to the 'window.'" Anthony started. "That's right. I found you there with Anne Alison."

"But, Valerie——"

"I know, I know. Anne told me, after you'd gone—down." The slip she had so nearly made set the girl sweating—literally. "I was mad, Anthony, mad," she panted. "I couldn't think straight. I nearly jumped over the cliff. I think the shock sent me blind. I'd always grudged her being so much with you. I want you to know the truth. She was always at the back of my mind. And when I saw you together—there, at our window——" She buried her face in her hands. "I know it was vile of me, dear. You see what I'm like. And if, now that you know, you'd like to go to an hotel…"

"But, Valerie, why didn't you give me a chance?"

"I was mad," she wailed, "mad. I loved you so wildly, Anthony, that I was stunned. And, in spite of it all, I loved you just as much. And that made me so furious, I could have torn my hair. I wanted to hurt you cruelly, and when I did, I bruised my own heart."

"But why——"

"I was too proud. You'd dared to touch my pride"—she laughed hysterically—"my precious, sacred pride—my Ark of the Covenant. D'you remember how Uzzah died because he touched the Ark? Well, you had to die…. And now"—she spread out her arms pathetically—"it's the pride that's dead, Anthony. Dead … dried up … shrivelled…. And I know what I'm worth."

She stopped.

Out of the neighbouring silence floated the comfortable note of a wood-pigeon. Clear of the shadow of the green box wall two butterflies flitted and whirled in the hot sunshine, while a fat bumble-bee hummed with excitement before the promise of a tall blue flag.

With his face in his hands, Anthony never moved.

"And that's all I've got to say. When I found I was wrong—well, I didn't know there was such agony in this world…. I deserved it, I know. Don't think I'm complaining. I deserve anything. But … if tears count, then I've paid—some of the score…."

The man's hands were quivering.

Looking upon him, Valerie could see that he was gazing between his fingers.

"I'm afraid to speak," he said uncertainly. His voice was trembling with excitement. "I'm afraid to go on. Don't think I haven't forgiven you. I have, Valerie. I did—oh, ages ago. But … we're skating on terribly thin ice—terribly thin. We must go frightfully carefully, Valerie. You've no idea how carefully." The girl stared at him. This was uncanny—as if he could read her thoughts. He went on breathlessly. "My dream, dear. This is what happened in my dream…. You reproached yourself in just the same handsome way. You used the same phrases." Valerie started. "And then—after all—something went wrong…. What it was, I don't know. I can't remember. And that's the trouble. I can't remember what happened. But it's been the same so far, and then—something went wrong…."

Valerie stood paralyzed. If Anthony was afraid to continue, she was terrified.

With an ungracious buzz the fat bee emerged clumsily from the tall blue flag and sailed noisily out of earshot. The sudden snap of jaws suggested that Patch, who was waiting patiently for the walk to proceed, forgave the flies no trespasses.

"You can't understand, dear. But you must take my word for it. I've trodden this way before. And presently—very soon now—there's a snare—a hole in the road. And if we go in, Valerie, it's—it's all up. I know it. It happened in my dream…. And I'm afraid to go on."

The tremulous misery of his tone wrung the girl's heart.

Instinctively she stretched out a hand.

Anthony recoiled with a cry.

"Don't! Don't touch me! I remember. You took my arm." Head back, he clawed at his temples. "That's right. And we started to walk. We had been standing. We started to walk back towards the cottage. And I felt absurdly happy—all of a sudden…. That was just before the end. And then—— Oh, if I could only remember…."

The agony of desire in his tone seared Valerie's brain into action. With a shock she realized that there she was standing like a dolt, quietly watching Lyveden cudgelling his brains for the password back to Insanity. Any second he might stumble upon it. For once, mercifully, his memory was sluggish—would not respond. And there he was flogging it, to extract that hideous fatal delusion that he was pledged to Gramarye….

Frantically she sought for a distraction. Her brain, however, was away, with the bit in its teeth. She could do nothing with it. The only thing she could think of was that dreadful pass, which Anthony was straining every nerve to recall. This rose up vivid. His reference to the kiss he had given her—her soft reply—the way he had taken her in his arms—then that mischievous breeze that had come whispering out of the silence, remindful, suggestive—the start he had given at its touch—the hoarse cry—the terrible light in his eyes….

Anthony gave a great shout.

"I know," he panted jubilantly. "I know…. It's coming back, darling, it's coming back—bit by bit. Then I spoke of that kiss. I said how sorry I was and asked your forgiveness. And you said——" He stopped suddenly and clapped a hand over his mouth. After a moment, "'Sh," he said shakily. "I mustn't repeat your words. That'd be moving. And we mustn't move, Valerie. We're just at the edge of the pit. We mustn't move an inch till I can see where it is. Don't be frightened, dear. It's all right. All our happiness depends upon my remembering, and—it's coming back…."

His voice faded, and in an instant he was deep in thought.

Eyes narrowed, his under-lip caught between his teeth, he stared fixedly ahead, making a supreme effort—plainly.

Valerie stood spellbound.

A pompous hum argued that the fat bee had decided to revisit the vicinity.

Far in the distance there was a movement—leaves shaken with the wind. A breeze was passing. The timber of the park murmured the news faintly…. With a sigh the tall elms of the avenue confirmed the park's report. A breeze was passing … coming … a little mischievous breeze….

For one long moment Valerie's heart stood still.

Then she threw back her head and began to sing.

"Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie…."

Anthony stared at her open-mouthed. Her throat felt as though it had steel bands about it. She just smiled and sang on.

"There I couch when owls do cry,
When owls do cry,
When owls do cry…."

The leaves of the lime-trees beyond the green box wall were trembling—she could see them—beginning to bob up and down. The boughs themselves were beginning to sway elastically. Valerie sang like a book.

"On a bat's back do I fly,
After sunset, merrily, merrily,
After sunset merrily…."

The lime-trees had stopped trembling. The breeze had passed…. An exultant note swept into the melody.

"Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough—
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough—
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."

With a fine, happy smile, Lyveden heard the song out.

Then he stepped to my lady and caught her two hands.

"Exquisite," he said, glowing. "Exquisite, Valerie. I never knew you had such a lovely voice."

As he spoke, the girl's knees sagged, and he was just in time to catch her before she fell….

Her collapse was momentary. She was not, I suppose, unconscious for more than five seconds. It was, indeed, at her bidding that Anthony set her down upon a low stone seat.

It was natural that he should be greatly concerned.

"Oh, my sweet, it was my fault. I frightened you. I know I did. Lean your head back. That's right. I was all worked up about that rotten dream. I'll never mention it again. I'm so very sorry, dear. I wouldn't have upset you for anything. And you sang so beautifully…. Why did you sing, Valerie?"

"I—I don't know. I heard a bee humming, and that made me think of the song. It was very silly."

"It was very sweet, lass. And I just loved it. And, oh, my lady, please never think of our misunderstanding again. I felt I wanted just to know, but that was all. D'you feel better now?" Valerie nodded. "Are you sure?"

"Quite."

"Shall I get you some water?"

"No, thanks, lad. I'm all right now."

Kneeling on one knee beside her, Anthony patted her hand.

"I'm so thankful…. I can't get over your singing like that … I felt—carried away. I shall remember it always." He sighed happily. "I've got so many happy memories to take away."

Valerie sat up straight.

"To take away?" she breathed.

"My dear, I've been here nearly six months already. It's only with an effort that I can remember that I'm your guest. I don't want to go. Drifting along like this is simply perfect, but … there's such a lot to be done … heaps."

"There's plenty of time."

"I know, but—well, look at my clothes, for one thing. I'm not fit to be seen."

The girl breathed again. Then—

"Oh, yes, you are, old chap. Fitter than you think. Besides, you don't have to stay in London because you're going to a tailor."

"I know," said Anthony slowly. "I know. But it isn't only that. You see, my lady, when I came here to your house, it was as a footman…. And I think I'd better leave it as—well, no more than a friend. That's a big enough step, in all conscience. After a little—a very little—I shall come, again, Valerie…."

His fingers closed about hers.

"You never came here as a footman," said the girl. "You came as my beloved. You went out of the garden of The Leather Bottel that very first day—my lord. What does it matter what else you were—are—will be? Oh, Anthony, you dear, honourable child…."

With his disengaged hand Lyveden covered his eyes.

"I meant to be so strong," he said humbly. "God forgive me, I'm very weak. You see—I love you so." His head bowed, he took hold of her other hand. "My lady, my beautiful lady, will you marry this lover of yours—this irresolute child?"

"Yes," said Valerie, "I will."

Anthony fell upon both knees.

"I worship you," he said simply. "Ever since that first day at the inn, you've had my heart in your hands. Sleeping, waking, your voice has rung in my ears; and my eyes have seen you in the background—a tall dark girl, with the air of a queen … always … always…. You've lighted pantries, you've honoured servants' halls, you've turned a third-class carriage into a bower…. And, when I came to know you, the face of the earth was changed. I didn't know there was such a being in all the world. I don't think you ever were born: I think you stepped out of a fairy tale some midsummer eve." He stopped to lay his head reverently upon the blue silk knees. "And you—are—to be—my wife…. In a few short weeks' time you're going to take my name—stand all in white by my side—put off your glorious girlhood for the last time, and go away—to live with me—for ever…." The cool firm fingers laid hold of his. "Wherever I am, your footfalls will be about me, your perfume will be in the air, your smile will gladden my eyes…. Oh, Valerie, my love, my darling, my queen—you've made me a king…."

Slowly Valerie led the strong rough palms up to her throat.

"If I've made you a king, lad," she breathed, "you mustn't kneel to me."

Getting upon his feet, Anthony pressed his lips to the slight fingers.

Valerie rose also.

"If I've made you a king, lad, you mustn't kiss my hand."

Anthony took her in his arms and looked into her eyes.

"I was wrong," he said, smiling. "You didn't step out of your fairy tale. You never left it. You've just invited me in."

Valerie put up her mouth.

* * * * *

Nineteen days had slipped by—careless, halcyon days, the matchless morning of a golden festival.

Jack and Jill were beyond imagination happy.

Lyveden had been prevailed upon to stay in Hampshire, and when he must visit London, to return the same night. I am not certain that these days were not the best of all. Valerie saw him off in the morning: the two had all day to think upon their state; his home-coming at even delivered a perfect reverie.

The last of these flying visits must be recorded, for it was unlike its fellows, and, though I cannot answer for Lyveden, Valerie will remember it always.

There is no doubt at all that Anthony was growing quite accustomed to the liberal atmosphere of Lincoln's Inn Fields. As he bent his steps westward, he found the huge square admirable. For comfortable dignity, no other square he could remember compared with it. This, he decided, was because its sides were not too high for its area. London, as a whole, had grown up. Had she grown outward instead, perhaps… He remembered suddenly that she had grown outward as well—out of all conscience, since Pepys had taken pleasure in Lincoln's Inn Fields. With a contented sigh Lyveden reflected that by nine-thirty that evening he would be back at Bell Hammer. The sweet smell of the country, the song of the wind in tree-tops—above all, the abundance of cool soft air, seemed to have become essential to his life. For the present, at any rate, he had no use for Town. It choked him. He was glad, however, that his solicitor's office was in Lincoln's Inn Fields….

Some clock announced the hour—a quarter to four. The ex-officer quickened his pace. Savile Row had to be visited, and Pall Mall. Most important of all, a coupe had to be proved…. Anthony's heart beat faster. The car was for Valerie.

As he left Kingsway behind, the gross belch of an 'Alarum' demanded passage. Anthony fell to wondering whether his sweet would not prefer some other usher. An 'Alarum' got there, of course; but it was Rabelaisian. Perhaps …

The sound of a collision between two pedestrians disturbed his musing.

It was nothing. Chin on shoulder, an errand-boy had collided with a man in a silk hat. Anthony was so close to the latter he could have touched him.

The boy muttered an apology, and the man laughed.

"My fault as much as yours," he said lazily, and passed on.

It was Dr. Heron.

Anthony reeled against the wall.

Observing his movement, two typists squeaked with pretended alarm, and then, giving him a wide berth, lurched on, convulsed with mirth and clutching one another.

To the poor woman who approached him and asked if he were ill, Anthony at first said nothing at all. Then he replied dazedly that he was "all right," and moved uncertainly away.

Arrived at the corner of Drury Lane, he hesitated, looking round helplessly, as if he were not sure of his way. Immediately opposite, a large efficient-looking ironmonger's shop presented a plain, well-kept, familiar face….

Anthony stared at it with a dropped jaw.

The errand-boy, who had found his demeanour promising, and had been loitering in the hope of developments, took up a good position in the gutter and fairly drank Lyveden in. Almost at once another of his species joined him.

After a prolonged stare—

"Wot's 'e doin' of?" said the new-comer. "Sayin' 'is prares?"

The other sniggered.

The noise aroused Anthony. With an effort he straightened himself….
Then he walked unsteadily across the street and into the shop.

The manager came forward.

"Have those mattocks come in?"

For a second the man peered at him. Then—

"Oh, Major Lyveden, isn't it? Yes, sir. Six 'Lightnin'' mattocks, it was. I sent you a card, sir, three weeks ago. I've got the six on one side for you, sir."

"I'll take them now."

"Certainly, sir." He turned to an assistant and gave directions.
Then: "Excuse me, sir. Jim!"

A boy came at a run.

"Fetch me that envelope off of the top o' my blottin'-pad. It's pinned there." He turned to Lyveden. "When you was 'ere last time, sir, you dropped your ticket. I kept it by, in case you come in again, thinkin' you might be glad of it. It ain't six months yet, sir, since you was 'ere, so it's still good."

A moment later Lyveden was looking fixedly at the return half of a third-class ticket which had been issued at Chipping Norton.

"Thanks," he said slowly, slipping it into his pocket. "I'm much obliged."

He paid for the goods and waited whilst a taxi was fetched.

Then he followed the mattocks into the cab, and told the surly driver to go to Paddington….

Five hours later he staggered, rather than walked, along the wasted track and up to the cottage door.

There had been no man to meet him, and the mattocks had made their weight felt after the first two miles. He laid them down thankfully.

For a moment he looked about him.

Behind him—over towards Girdle—the sun had just gone down. And Gramarye … Gramarye had never looked one half so beautiful…. All her hard lines were gone. Every sacred twig of her had put on a wedding garment. The wild mystery of the place had been exquisitely veiled. The majesty of desolation was in full dress. Far as the eye could reach, the toss of the glorious woods had become unspeakably enriched… maddening….

His eyes glittering, Lyveden hugged himself in a paroxysm of glee. The man was just gloating….

Then he strode to the wood-shed.

"Well, Patch," he said cheerily. "Has Patch been a good little——"

The sentence snapped off short.

For a moment Anthony stared at the empty staple.

Then he turned on his heel.

"Patch!" he cried sharply. "Patch!"

After listening intently for a moment, he stepped hastily on to the wasted track and began to whistle….

Presently, trembling with anxiety, he started to stumble along the trail, whistling frantically….

* * * * *

Seated in the hall at Bell Hammer, Valerie looked at the clock. As she did so, the faint crunch of wheels upon gravel told that the car was leaving to meet the down train. An instant later the clock struck nine. Miss French threaded her needle thoughtfully….

Curled by her side upon the sofa, a little white dog with a black patch breathed stertorously.

A door opened, and a servant appeared with a letter. This had been expressed. Valerie laid down her work, and, after a glance at the envelope, opened it curiously.

DEAREST VALERIE,

Do you know anything of Peter? We only got back from America two days ago, and when we rang up his club—he was living there while we were away—they said they hadn't seen him since March. Of course we're frightfully worried. He had the car with him, and we're trying to trace that. Oh, Valerie, father's just come in and said that the car's been found at Carlisle. In a garage there, and that two men left it to be seen to a month ago, but the police think he bought it from them and is afraid. Please wire if you——

With a crash the small table by her side upset its complement of violets on to the parquet, there was a wild scrabble of paws, and Patch was at the front door, snuffing the sill and whining tremulously….

Valerie got upon her feet.

"What is it, Patch?" she said. "He isn't here yet."

For a second the terrier listened.

The next moment he was almost beating himself against the woodwork.

Letter in hand, Valerie crossed the hall and opened the door.

The dog rushed out into the drive.

For a moment he stood there, plainly straining his ears.

An instant later he was flying down the avenue….

* * * * *

The glow of the sunset faded. Evening gave way to dusk. Night stole into her throne-room…. One by one, men, spent with their labour, went to their rest. Pillowed upon the bosom of the country-side, villages fell asleep. And through them, while they slept, a little white dog went pelting breathlessly under the cold moonlight—now running, now dropping to a fast walk, now hesitating, now plunging on desperately, sometimes to the east, sometimes to the west, but in the main northward … due north, sirs … in the direction of the Cotswold Hills.