curved with smiles, was straight now, and resolutely set. She was
distinctly paler, and her manner seemed to have acquired a new gravity.
I must confess that my first impulse was one of relief. Isobel had not
found Lady Delahaye's offer, then, so wonderfully attractive.

"Do you mind coming home now, Arnold?" she asked. "I did not know that
it was so late."

I saw Lady Delahaye's face darken at her simple use of my Christian
name, and the touch of her fingers upon my arm. Arthur heard our voices,
and came to us at once. So we took leave of our hostess, and turned
homewards.

For a long time we walked almost in silence. Then Isobel turned towards
me with a new gravity in her face, and an unusual hesitation in her
tone.

"Arnold," she said, "Lady Delahaye has been pointing out to me one or
two things which I had not thought of before. I suppose she meant to be
kind. I suppose it is right that I should know. But----" her voice
trembled--"I wish she had not told me."

"Lady Delahaye is an interfering old cat!" Arthur exclaimed viciously.
"Don't take any notice of her, Isobel."

"But I must know," she answered, "whether the things which she said were
true."

"They were probably exaggerations," I said cheerfully; "but let us hear
them, at any rate."

"She said," Isobel continued, looking steadily in front of her, "that
you were all three very poor indeed, and that I had no right to come and
live with you, and make you poorer still, when I had a home offered me
elsewhere. She said that I should disturb your whole life, that you
would have to give up many things which were a pleasure to you, and you
would not be able to succeed so well with your work, as you would have
to write altogether for money. And she said that I should be grown up
soon, and ought to live where there are women; and when I told her about
Mrs. Burdett she laughed unpleasantly, and said that she did not count
at all. And that is why--she wants me--to go there!"

Again the shadow of tragedy gleamed in the child's white face. Her face
was strained, her eyes had lost the deep softness of their colouring,
and there lurked once more in their depths the terror of nameless
things. To me the sight of her like this was so piteous that I wasted
not a moment in endeavouring to reassure her.

"Rubbish!" I exclaimed cheerfully. "Sheer and unadulterated rubbish! We
are not rich, Isobel, but the trifle the care of you will cost us
amounts to nothing at all. We are willing and able to take charge of you
as well as we can. You know that!"

Ah! She drew a long sigh of relief. It was wonderful how her face
changed.

"But why is Lady Delahaye so cruel--why is she so anxious that I should
not stay with you?" she said.

I laughed.

"Lady Delahaye is mysterious," I answered. "I have come to the
conclusion, Isobel, that you must be a princess in disguise, and that
Lady Delahaye wants to claim all the rewards for having taken charge of
you!"

"Don't be silly!" she laughed. "Princesses are not brought up at Madame
Richard's, without relations or friends to visit them, and no pocket
money."

"Nevertheless," I answered, "when I consider the number of people who
are interested in you, and Lady Delahaye's extraordinary persistence, I
am inclined to stick to my theory. We shall look upon you, Isobel, as an
investment, and some day you shall reward us all."

Her hand slipped into mine. Her eyes were soft enough now.

"Dear friend," she murmured, "I think that it is my heart only which
will reward you--my great, great gratitude. I am afraid of Lady
Delahaye, Arnold. There are things in her eyes when she looks at me
which make me shiver. Do not let us go there again, please!"

Arthur broke in impetuously.

"You shall go nowhere you don't want to, Isobel. Arnold and I will see
to that."

"And--about the other thing--she mentioned," Isobel began.

"She was right and wrong," I answered. "Of course, it would be better
for you if one of us had a sister or a mother living with us, but Mrs.
Burdett has always seemed to us like a mother, and I think--that it will
be all right," I concluded a little lamely. "We need not worry about
that, at present at any rate. Come, we've had a dull afternoon, and I
sold a story yesterday. Let's go to Fasolas, and have a half-crown
dinner."

"I'm on," Arthur declared. "We'll go and fetch Allan."

"You dear!" Isobel exclaimed. "I shall wear my new hat!"

Book II

CHAPTER I

"I have no doubt," Mabane said gloomily, "that Arthur is right. He ought
to know more about it than old fogies like you and me, Arnold. We had
the money, and we ought to have insisted upon it. You gave way far too
easily."

"That's all very well," I protested, "but I don't take in a woman's
fashion paper, and Isobel assured us that the hat was all right. She
looks well enough in it, surely!"

"Isobel looks ripping!" Arthur declared, "but then, she looks ripping in
anything. All the same, the hat's old-fashioned. You look at the hats
those girls are wearing, who've just come in--flat, bunchy things, with
flowers under the brim. That's the style just now."

"Isobel shall have one, then," I declared. "We will take her West
to-morrow. We can afford it very well."

She came up to us beaming. She was a year older, and her skirts were a
foot longer. Her figure was, perhaps, a shade more developed, and her
manner a little more assured. In other respects she was unchanged.

"What are you two old dears worrying about?" she exclaimed lightly. "You
have the air of conspirators. No secrets from me, please. What is it all
about?"

"We are lamenting the antiquity of your hat," Mabane answered gravely.
"Arthur assures us that it is out of date. It ought to be flat and
bunchy, and it isn't!"

"Geese!" she exclaimed lightly, "both of you! Arthur, I'm ashamed of
you. You may know something about motors, but you are very ignorant
indeed about hats. Come along, all of you, and gaze at my miniatures. I
am longing to see how they look framed."

"As regards the hat----" I began.

"I will not hear anything more about it," she interrupted, laughing. "Of
course, if you don't like to be seen with me--oh! Why, look! look!"

We had stopped before a case of miniatures. In the front row were two
somewhat larger than the others, and Isobel's first serious attempts.
Behind each was stuck a little ivory board bearing the magic word
"Sold."

"Sold!" Arthur exclaimed incredulously.

"It may be a mistake," I said slowly.

Mabane and I exchanged glances. We knew very well that, though the
miniatures showed promise of talent, they were amateurish and imperfect,
and the reserve which we had placed upon them was quite out of all
proportion to their merit. It must surely be a mistake! We followed
Isobel across the room. A little elderly gentleman was sitting before a
desk, engaged in the leisurely contemplation of a small open ledger.
Isobel had halted in front of him. There was a delicate flush of pink on
her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant.

"Are my miniatures sold, please?" she exclaimed. "My name is Miss de
Sorrens. They have a small ivory board just behind them which says
'Sold.'"

The elderly gentleman looked up, and surveyed her calmly over the top of
his spectacles.

"What did you say that your name was, madam, and the number of your
miniatures?" he enquired.

"Miss Isobel de Sorrens," she answered breathlessly, "and my miniatures
are number two hundred and seven and eight--a portrait of an elderly
lady, and two hundred and eighty-nine--a child."

The little old gentleman turned over the pages of his ledger in very
leisurely fashion, and consulted a recent entry.

"Your miniatures are sold, Miss de Sorrens," he said, "for the reserve
price placed upon them--twenty guineas each. The money will be paid to
you on the close of the Exhibition, according to our usual custom."

"Please tell me who bought them," she begged. "I want to be quite sure
that there is no mistake."

"There is certainly no mistake," he answered, smiling. "The first one
was bought by--let me see--a nobleman in the suite of the Archduchess of
Bristlaw, the Baron von Leibingen. I believe that her Highness is
proposing to visit the Exhibition this afternoon. The other purchaser
paid cash, but refused his name. Ah! Excuse me!"

He rose hastily, and moved towards the door. A little group of people
were entering, before whom the bystanders gave way with all that respect
which the British public invariably displays for Royalty. Isobel watched
them with frank and eager interest. Mabane and I moved over to her side.

"Is it true?" I asked her.

"He says so," she answered, still a little bewildered. "Arnold, can you
imagine it? Forty guineas! I--I----"

There followed an amazing interlude. The little party of newcomers,
before whom everyone was obsequiously giving way, came face to face with
us. Mabane and I stepped back at once, but Isobel remained motionless.
An extraordinary change had come over her. Her eyes seemed fastened upon
the woman who was the central figure of the little procession, and the
girl who walked by her side. Someone whispered to her to move back. She
took no notice. She seemed as though she had not heard. Royalty raised
its lorgnettes, and dropped them with a crash upon the polished wood
floor. Then those who were quick to understand knew that something lay
beneath this unusual awkwardness.

The manager of the Gallery, who, catalogue in hand, had been prepared
personally to conduct the Royal party round, looked about him, wondering
as to the cause of the _contretemps_. His eyes fell upon Isobel.

"Please step back," he whispered to her, angrily. "Don't you see that
the Princess is here, and the Archduchess of Bristlaw? Clear the way,
please!"

The manager was a small man, and Isobel's eyes travelled over his head.
She did not seem to hear him speak. The Archduchess recovered herself.
She took the shattered lorgnettes from the hand of her lady-in-waiting.
She pointed to Isobel.

"Who is this young person?" she asked calmly. "Does she wish to speak to
me?"

A wave of colour swept into Isobel's cheeks. She drew back at once.

"I beg your pardon, Madame," she said. But even when she had rejoined my
side her eyes remained fixed upon the face of the Archduchess and her
companion.

There was a general movement forward. One of the ladies in the suite,
however, lingered behind. Our eyes met, and Lady Delahaye held out her
hand.

"Your ward is growing," she murmured, "in inches, if not in manners.
When are you going to engage a chaperon for her?"

"When I think it necessary, Lady Delahaye," I answered, with a bow.

"You artists have--such strange ideas," she remarked, smiling up at me.
"You wish Isobel to remain a child of nature, perhaps. Yet you must
admit that a few lessons in deportment would be of advantage."

"To the Archduchess, apparently," I answered. "One does not often see a
great lady so embarrassed."

Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders. She dropped her voice a little.

"Are we never to meet without quarrelling, Arnold?" she whispered,
looking up into my eyes. "It used not to be like this."

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "it is not my fault. We seem to have taken
opposite sides in a game which I for one do not understand. Twice during
the last six months you have made attempts which can scarcely be called
honourable to take Isobel from us. Our rooms are continually watched. We
dare not let the child go out alone. Now this woman from Madame
Richard's has come to live in the same building. She, too, watches."

"It is only the beginning, Arnold," she said quietly. "I told you more
than a year ago that you were interfering in graver concerns than you
imagined. Why don't you be wise, and let the child go? The care of her
will bring nothing but trouble upon you!"

Her words struck home more surely than she imagined, for in my heart had
lain dormant for months the fear of what was to come, the shadow which
was already creeping over our lives. Nevertheless, I answered her
lightly.

"You know my obstinacy of old, Lady Delahaye," I said. "We are wasting
words, I think."

She shrugged her shoulders and passed on. Mabane touched me on the
shoulder.

"Isobel would like to go," he said. "Arthur and she are at the door
already."

I turned to leave the place. We were already in the passage which led
into Bond Street, when I felt myself touched upon the shoulder. A tall,
fair young man, with his hair brushed back, and very blue eyes, who had
been in the suite of the Archduchess, addressed me.

"Pardon me," he said, "but you are Mr. Arnold Greatson, I believe?"

I acknowledged the fact.

"The Archduchess of Bristlaw begs that you will spare her a moment. She
will not detain you longer."

I turned to Mabane.

"Take Isobel home," I said. "I will follow presently."

We re-entered the Gallery. The majority of the Royal party were busy
examining the miniatures. The Archduchess was talking earnestly to Lady
Delahaye in a remote corner. My guide led me directly to her.

"Her Highness permits me to present you," he said to me. "This is Mr.
Arnold Greatson, your Highness."

The Archduchess acknowledged my bow graciously.

"You are the Mr. Arnold Greatson who writes such charming stories," she
said. "Yes, it is so, is it not?"

"Your Highness is very kind," I answered.

"I learn," she continued, "that you are also the guardian of the young
lady who gave us all such a start. Pardon me, but you surely seem a
little young for such a post."

"The circumstances, your Highness," I answered, "were a little
exceptional."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, yes, so I have heard. Lady Delahaye has been telling me the story.
I understand that you have never been able to discover the child's
parentage. That is very strange!"

"There are other things in connection with my ward, your Highness," I
said, "which seem to me equally inexplicable."

"Yes? I am very interested. Will you tell me what they are?"

"By all means," I answered. "I refer to the fact that though no one has
come forward openly to claim the child, indirect efforts to induce her
to leave us are continually being made by persons who seem to desire
anonymity. Whenever she has been alone in the streets she has been
accosted under various pretexts."

The Archduchess was politely surprised.

"But surely you are aware," she remarked, "of the source of some at
least of these attempts?"

"Madame Richard," I said, "the principal of the convent where Isobel was
educated, seems particularly anxious to have her return there."

The Archduchess nodded her head slowly.

"Well," she said, "is that so much to be wondered at? Even we who are of
the world might consider--you must pardon me, Mr. Greatson, if I speak
frankly--the girl's present position an undesirable one. How do you
suppose, then, that the principal of a convent boarding-school, whose
sister, I believe, is a nun, would be likely to regard the same thing?"

"Your Highness knows, then, of the convent?" I remarked.

The Archduchess lifted her eyebrows lightly. Her gesture seemed intended
to convey to me the fact that she had not sent for me to answer my
questions. I remained unabashed, however, and waited for her reply.
Several curious facts were beginning to group themselves together in my
mind.

"I have heard of the place," she said coldly. "I believe it to be an
excellent institution. I sent for you, Mr. Greatson, not, however, to
discuss such matters, but solely to ask for information as to the
child's parentage. It seems that you are unable to give me this."

"Lady Delahaye knows as much--probably more--than I," I answered.

It seemed to me that the Archduchess and Lady Delahaye exchanged quick
glances. I affected, however, to have noticed nothing.

"I will be quite candid with you, Mr. Greatson," the Archduchess
continued. "My interest in the girl arises, of course, from the
wonderful likeness to my own daughter, and to other members of my
family. Your ward herself was obviously struck with it. I must confess
that I, too, received something of a shock."

"I think," I answered, "that it was apparent to all of us."

The Archduchess coughed. For a Royal personage, she seemed to find some
little difficulty in proceeding.

"The history of our family is naturally a matter of common knowledge,"
she said slowly. "Any connection with it, therefore, which this child
might be able to claim would be of that order which you, as a man of the
world, would doubtless understand. Nevertheless, I am sufficiently
interested in her to be inclined to take any steps which might be
necessary for her welfare. I propose to set some enquiries on foot.
Providing that the result of them be as I suspect, I presume you would
have no objection to relinquish the child to my protection?"

"Your Highness," I answered, "I could not answer such a question as that
without consideration, or without consulting Isobel herself."

The Archduchess frowned upon me, and I was at once made conscious that I
had fallen under her displeasure. I fancy, however, that I appeared as I
felt, quite unimpressed.

"I cannot understand any hesitation whatsoever upon your part, Mr.
Greatson," she said. "Under my care the child's future would be
fittingly provided for. Her position with you must be, at the best, an
equivocal one."

"Your Highness," I answered steadily, "my friends and I are handicapped
perhaps by our sex, but we have a housekeeper who is an old family
servant, and a model of respectability. In all ways and at all times we
have treated Isobel as a very dear sister. The position may seem an
equivocal one--to a certain order of minds. Those who know us, I may
venture to say, see nothing harmful to the child in our guardianship."

The Archduchess stared at me, and I gathered that she was not used to
anything save implicit obedience from those to whom she made
suggestions. She stared, and then she laughed softly. There was more
than a spice of malice in her mirth.

"Which of you three young men are going to fall in love with her?" she
asked bluntly. "You call her a child, but she is almost a woman, and she
is beautiful. She will be very beautiful."

"Your Highness," I answered coldly, "it is a matter which we have not as
yet permitted ourselves to consider."

The Archduchess was displeased with me, and she took no further pains to
hide her displeasure.

"Mr. Greatson," she said, with a little wave of dismissal, "for the
present I have no more to say."

She turned her back upon me, and I at once left the Gallery.

CHAPTER II

I walked home with but one thought in my mind. The Archduchess had put
into words--very plain, blunt words--what as yet I had scarcely dared
harbour in my mind as a fugitive idea. She had done me in that respect
good service. She had brought to a sudden crisis an issue which it was
folly any longer to evade. I meant to speak now, and have done with it.
I walked through the busy streets a dreaming man. It was for the last
time. Henceforth, even the dream must pass.

I found Mabane and Arthur alone, for which I was sufficiently thankful.
There was no longer any excuse for delay. Mabane had taken possession of
the easy-chair, and was smoking his largest pipe. Arthur was walking
restlessly up and down the room. Evidently they had been discussing
between them the events of the afternoon, for there was a sudden silence
when I entered, and they both waited eagerly for me to speak. I closed
the door carefully behind me, and took a cigarette from the box on my
desk.

"What did the Archduchess want?" Arthur asked bluntly.

"I will tell you all that she said presently," I answered. "In effect,
it was the same as the others. She, too, wanted Isobel!"

"Shall we have to give her up?" Arthur demanded.

"We will discuss that another time," I said. "I am glad to find that you
are both here. There is another matter, concerning which I think that we
ought to come to an understanding as soon as possible. It has been in my
mind for a long while."

"About Isobel?" Arthur interrupted.

"About Isobel!" I assented.

They were both attentive. Mabane's expression was purely negative.
Arthur, on the other hand, was distinctly nervous. I think that from the
first he had some idea what it was that I wanted to say.

"Isobel, when she came to us little more than a year ago," I continued,
"was a child. We have always treated her, and I believe thought of her,
as a child. It was perhaps a daring experiment to have brought her here
at all, and yet I am inclined to think that, under the circumstances, it
was the best thing for her, and, from another point of view, an
excellent thing for us!"

"Excellent! Why, it has made all the difference in the world," Arthur
declared vigorously.

"I see that you follow me," I agreed. "Her coming seems to have steadied
us up all round. The changes which we were obliged to make in our manner
of living have all been for the better. I am afraid that we were
drifting, Allan and I, at any rate into a somewhat objectless sort of
existence, and our work was beginning to show the signs of it. The
coming of Isobel seems to have changed all that. You, Allan, know that
you have never done better work in your life than during the last year.
Your portrait of her was an inspiration. Some of those smaller studies
show signs of a talent which I think has surprised everyone, except
Arthur and myself, who knew what you could do when you settled down to
it. I, too, have been more successful, as you know. I have done better
work, and more of it. You agree with me so far, Allan?"

"There is no doubt at all about it," Mabane said slowly. "There has been
a different atmosphere about the place since the child came, and we have
thrived in it. We are all better, much the better, for her coming!"

"I am glad that you appreciate this, Allan," I said. "This sort of thing
is rather hard to put into words, but I believe that you fellows
understand exactly what I mean. We have had to amuse her, and in doing
so we have developed simpler and better tastes for ourselves. We've had
to give up a lot of things, and a lot of friends we've been much better
without."

"It's true, every word of it, Arnold," Mabane admitted, knocking out the
ashes from his pipe. "We've chucked the music-halls for the theatres,
and our lazy slacking Sundays, with a night at the club afterwards, for
long wholesome days in the country--very jolly days, too. We're better
men in our small way for the child's coming, Arnold. You can take that
for granted. Now, go on with what you have to say. I suppose this is all
a prelude to something or other."

Even then I hesitated, for my task was not an easy one, and all the
while Arthur, who maintained an uneasy silence, was watching me
furtively. It was as though he knew from the first what it was that I
was leading up to, and I seemed to be conscious already of his
passionate though unspoken resistance.

"It was a child," I said at last, "whom we took into our lives. To-day
she is a woman!"

Then Arthur could keep silence no longer. There was a pink flush in his
cheeks, which were still as smooth as a girl's, but the passion in his
tone was the passion of a man.

"You are not thinking, Arnold--you would not be so mad as to think of
giving her up to any of these people?" he exclaimed. "They are her
enemies, all of them. I am sure of it!"

"I am coming to that presently," I went on. "You know what happened this
afternoon? You saw the likeness, the amazing likeness, between Isobel
and that other girl, the daughter of the Archduchess. The Archduchess
was herself very much impressed with it. Without a doubt she knows
Isobel's history. She went so far as to tell me that she believed Isobel
to be morganatically connected with her own family, the House of
Waldenburg! She offered to take her under her own protection!"

"You did not consent!" Arthur exclaimed.

"I neither consented nor absolutely refused," I answered. "It was not a
matter to be decided on the spur of the moment. But the more I think of
it, the more I am puzzled. Madame Richard wants Isobel. She was not
satisfied with our refusal to give her up. She sent that messenger of
hers back with fresh offers, and when again we refused, the woman takes
up her quarters here, always spying upon us, always accosting Isobel on
any excuse. Madame Richard may be a very good woman, but I have seen and
spoken with her, and I do not for one moment believe that her
extraordinary persistence is for Isobel's sake alone. Then Lady Delahaye
has never ceased from worrying us. She has tried threats, persuasions
and entreaties. She has tried by every means in her power to induce us
to give up the child to her. And now we have the Archduchess to deal
with, and it seems to me that we are getting very near the heart of the
matter. The Archduchess is a daughter of one of the Royal Houses of
Europe, and Major Delahaye was once _attaché_ at her father's Court.
Then there is Grooten, the man who shot Delahaye. His interest in her is
so strong that he risks his life and commits a crime to save her from a
man whom he believes to be a source of danger to her. He sends her money
every quarter, which, as you know, we have never touched--it stands in
her name if ever she should require it. Grooten is a man into whose
charge we could not possibly give her, and yet of all these people he is
the only one whom I would trust--the only one whom I feel instinctively
means well by her. Madame Richard wants her, Lady Delahaye wants her,
and behind them both there is the Archduchess, who also wants her. I
have thought this matter over, and, so far as I am concerned, I have
decided----"

"Not to give her up to any of them!" Arthur exclaimed sharply.

"To give her up to no one who is not prepared to go into court and
establish a legal claim," I continued. "It is very simple, and I think
very reasonable. When she leaves us, it shall be to take up an
accredited and definite station in life. The time may come at any
moment. We must always be prepared for it. But until it does, we will
not even parley any longer with these people who come to us and hint at
mysterious things."

Arthur wrung my hand. He was apparently much relieved, and he did not
know what was coming.

"Arnold, you are a brick!" he exclaimed. "That's sound
common-sense--every word you've uttered. Let them prove their claim to
her."

"I agree with every word you have spoken," Allan said quietly, in
response to a look from me. "The child is at least safe with us, and she
is not wasting her time. She has talent, and she has application. I, for
my part, shall be very sorry indeed when the time comes, as I suppose it
will come some day, for her to go."

Then I mustered up my courage, and said that which I had known from the
first would be difficult.

"There is one thing more," I said, "and I want to say it to you now. It
may seem to you both unnecessary. Perhaps it is. Still, it is better
that we should come to an understanding about it. A year has passed
since Isobel, the child, came to us. To-day she is a woman. If we still
keep her with us there must be a bond, a covenant between us, and our
honour must stand pledged to keep it. I think that you both know very
well what I mean. I hope that you will both agree with me."

I paused for a moment, but I received no encouragement from either of
them. They were both silent, and Arthur's eyes were questioning mine
fiercely. I addressed myself more particularly to him.

"Allan and I are elderly persons compared with you, Arthur," I said,
"but we might still be described at a stretch as young men. If we decide
to remain Isobel's guardians, there is a further and a deeper duty
devolving upon us than the obvious one of treating her with all respect.
It is possible that she might come to feel a preference for one of us--a
sense of gratitude, the natural sentiment of her coming womanhood, even
the fact of continual propinquity might encourage it. Isobel is
charming; she will be beautiful. The position, if any one of us relaxed
in the slightest degree, might become critical. You must understand what
I mean, I am sure, even if I am not expressing it very clearly. Isobel
sees few, if any, other men. It is possible, it is almost certain, that
she belongs to a class whose position and ideas are far removed from
ours. There must be no sentimental relations established between her and
any one of us. We are her brothers, she is our sister. So it must remain
while she is under our charge. This must be agreed upon between us."

There was a dead, almost an ominous, silence. Mabane was standing with
his arms folded, and his face turned a little away. I appealed first to
him.

"Allan," I said, "you agree with me?"

"Absolutely!" he answered. "I agree with every word you have said."

I turned to Arthur.

"And you, Arthur?"

He did not at once reply. The colour was coming and going in his cheeks,
and he was playing nervously with his watchchain. When he raised his
eyes to mine, the slight belligerency of his earlier manner was more
clearly defined.

"I think," he said, "that there is another side to the question. Isobel
is the sort of girl whom fellows are bound to notice. Besides, being so
jolly good-looking, she is such ripping good form, and that sort of
thing. What you are proposing, Arnold, is simply that we should stand on
one side altogether and leave Isobel for any other fellow who happens to
come along."

"It scarcely amounts to that," I answered. "No other man is likely to
see much of her while she is under our care. Afterwards, of course, the
conditions are different. Our covenant, the covenant to which I am
asking you to agree, comes to an end when she leaves us."

"You see," Arthur protested, "it is a little different, isn't it, for
you fellows? Not that I'm comparing myself with you, of course, in any
sort of way. You're both heaps cleverer than I am, and all that, but
Isobel and I are nearer the same age, and we've been about together such
a lot, motoring and all that, and had such good times. You understand
what I mean, don't you? Of course, that sort of thing, that sort of
thing--you know, brings a fellow and a girl together so, liking the same
things, and being about the same age. It isn't quite like that with you
two, is it now?"

Again there was silence. Mabane had withdrawn his pipe from his mouth,
and was looking steadfastly into the bowl. As for me, I found it wholly
impossible to analyse my sensations. All the time Arthur was looking
eagerly from one to the other of us. I recovered myself with an effort,
and answered him.

"We will not dispute the position with you, Arthur," I said quietly. "We
will admit all that you say. We will admit, therefore, that by all
natural laws you are the one on whom the burden of keeping this covenant
must fall most heavily. That fact may make it a little harder for you
than for us, but it does not alter the position in any way. There must
be no attempt at sentiment between Isobel and any one of us. If by any
chance the opening should come from her, it must be ignored and
discouraged."

"I can't for the life of me see why," Arthur declared. "And I--well,
it's no use beating about the bush. Isobel is the only girl in the world
I could ever look at. I am fond of her! I can't help it! I love her!
There!"

Mabane mercifully took up the burden of speech.

"Have you said anything to her?" he asked.

"No."

"Not a word?"

"Not a word," Arthur declared. "She is too young. She has not begun to
think about those things yet. But she is wonderful, and I love her. It
is all very well for you two," he continued earnestly. "You are both
over thirty, and confirmed bachelors. I'm only just twenty-four, and
I've never cared for a girl a snap of the fingers yet. I don't care any
more about knocking about. Of course, I've done a bit at it like
everyone else, but Isobel has knocked all that out of me. I should be
quite content to settle down to-morrow!"

I tried to put myself in his place, to enter for a moment into his point
of view. Yet I am afraid that I must have seemed very unsympathetic.

"Arthur," I said, "I am sorry for you, but it won't do. I fancy that
before long she will be removed from us altogether. For her sake, and
the sake of our own honour, no word of what you have told us must pass
your lips. Unless you can promise that----"

I hesitated. Arthur had risen to his feet. The colour had mounted to his
temples, his eyes were bright with anger.

"I will not promise it," he declared. "I love Isobel, and very soon I
mean to tell her so."

"Then it must be under another roof," I answered. "If you will not
promise to keep absolutely silent until we at least know exactly what
her parentage is, you must leave us."

Arthur took up his hat.

"Very well," he said shortly. "I will send for my things to-morrow."

He left the room without another word to either of us.

"In diplomacy," the Baron remarked blandly, "as also, I believe, in
affairs of commerce, the dinner-table is frequently chosen as a fitting
place for the commencement of delicate negotiations. For a bargain--no!
But when three men--take ourselves, for instance--have a matter of some
importance to discuss, I can conceive no better opportunity for the
preliminary--skirmishing, shall I say?--than the present."

I raised my glass, and looked thoughtfully at the pale amber wine
bubbling up from the stem.

"From a certain point of view," I answered, "I entirely agree with you.
Yet you must remember that the host has always the advantage."

"In the present case," the Baron said with a smile, "that amounts to
nothing, for you practically gave me my answer before we sat down to
dinner. If I am able to induce you to change your mind--well, so much
the better. If not--well, I can have nothing to complain of."

"I am glad," I answered, "that you appreciate our position. With regard
to the present custody of the child, which I take it is what you want to
discuss with us, our minds are practically made up. My friend and I have
both agreed that we will continue the charge of her until she is claimed
by someone who is in a position to do so openly--someone, in short, who
has a legal right."

The Baron nodded gravely.

"An excellent decision," he said. "No one could possibly quarrel with
it. Yet it is a privilege to be able to tell you some facts which may
perhaps affect your point of view. I can explain to you _why_ this open
claim is not made."

"We are here," I answered, "to listen to whatever you may have to say."

We--Allan and I--were dining with the Baron at Claridge's. An
appointment, which he had begged us to make, had been changed into a
dinner invitation at his earnest request. There was a likelihood, he
told us, of his being summoned abroad at any moment, and he was
particularly anxious not to leave the hotel pending the arrival of a
cablegram. So far his demeanour had been courtesy and consideration
itself, but under the man's geniality and almost excessive _bonhomie_
both Allan and myself were conscious of a certain nervous impatience,
only partially concealed. Whatever proposal he might have to make to us,
our acceptance of it was without doubt a matter of great importance to
him. The more we realized this, the more we wondered.

"I only wish," he said with emphasis, "that it was within my power to
lay the cards upon the table before you, to tell you the whole truth. I
do not think then that you would hesitate for a single second. But that
I cannot do. The honour of a great house, Mr. Greatson, is involved in
this matter, into which you have been so strangely drawn. I must leave
blanks in my story which you must fill in for yourselves, you and Mr.
Mabane. There are things which I may not--dare not--tell you. If I
could, you would wonder no longer that those who desire to take over the
charge of the child wish to do so without publicity, and without any
appeal to the courts."

"The Archduchess," I remarked, "gave me some hint as to the nature of
these difficulties."

The Baron emptied his glass and called for another bottle of wine. Then
he looked carefully around him, a quite unnecessary precaution, for our
table was in a remote corner of the room, and there were very few
dining.

"It is no longer," he said, "a matter of surmise with us as to who the
child you call Isobel de Sorrens really is. She is of the House of
Waldenburg. She carries her descent written in her face, a hall-mark no
one could deny. Upon the Archduchess and others of her great family must
rest always the shadow of a grave stigma so long as the child remains in
the hands of strangers, an alien from her own country. The Archduchess
wishes at once, and quietly, to assume the charge of her. She is
conscious of your services; she feels that you have probably saved the
child from a fate which it is not easy to contemplate calmly. She
authorizes me, therefore, to treat with you in the most generous
fashion."

"That is a phrase," I remarked, "which I do not altogether understand."

"Later," the Baron said, with a meaning look, "I will make myself clear.
In the meantime, let me recommend this soufflé. Mr. Mabane, you are
drinking nothing. Would you prefer your wine a shade colder?"

"Not for me," Allan declared. "I prefer champagne at its natural
temperature; the wine is far too good to have its flavour frozen out of
it. Apropos of what you were saying, Baron, there is one question which
I should like to ask you. Why was Major Delahaye sent to St. Argueil for
Isobel, and what was he supposed to do with her?"

I do not think that the Baron liked the question. He hesitated for
several moments before he answered it.

"Major Delahaye was not sent," he said. "He went on his own account. He
was the only person who knew the child's whereabouts."

"And what do you suppose his object was in bringing her away from the
convent?" Allan persisted.

"I do not know," the Baron answered. "All I can say is that it pleases
me vastly more to find the child in your keeping than in his."

"Was the man who shot him," I asked, "concerned in the child's earlier
history?"

"I cannot place him at all," the Baron answered. "I should imagine that
his quarrel with Major Delahaye was a personal one, and had no bearing
upon the child. Few men had more enemies than Delahaye. One does not
wish to speak ill of the dead, but he was a bully and a brute all his
days."

A servant in plain black livery brought a sealed note to our host, and
stood respectfully by his side while he read it. It obviously consisted
of but a few words, yet the Baron continued to hold it in front of him
for nearly a minute. Finally, he crushed it in his hand, and dismissed
the servant.

"There is no answer," he said. "I shall wait upon her Highness in an
hour."

Our dinner was over. Both Mabane and myself had declined dessert. Our
host rose.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have ordered coffee in the smoking-room. The
head-waiter has told me of some wonderful brandy, and I have some cigars
which I am anxious for you to try. Will you come this way?"

We were the only occupants of the smoking-room. The Baron appropriated a
corner, and left us to fetch the cigars. Mabane lit a cigarette and
leaned back in an easy-chair.

"It seems to me, Arnold," he said, "that you are like the man who found
what he went out for to see. You wanted tragedy--and you came very near
it. I do not quite see what the end of all these things will be. Our
host----"

"There is a disappointment in store for him, I fancy," I interrupted.
"He is a very faithful servant of the Archduchess, and he has worked
hard for her. From his point of view his arguments are reasonable
enough. All that he says is plausible--and yet--one feels that there is
something behind it all. Allan, I don't trust one of these people! I
can't!"

"Nor I," Allan answered softly, for the Baron had already entered the
room.

He brought with him some wonderful cabanas, and immediately afterwards
coffee and liqueurs were served. The moment the waiter had disappeared,
he threw off all reserve.

"Come," he said, "I am no longer your host. We meet here on equal terms.
I have an offer to make to you which I think you will find astonishing.
The fact is, her Highness is anxious to run no risk of any resurrection
of a certain scandal. She has commissioned me to beg your
acceptance--you and your friend--of these," he laid down two separate
pieces of paper upon the table. "She wishes to relieve you as soon as
possible to-night, if you can arrange it--of the care of a certain young
lady. There need be no hesitation about your acceptance. Royalty, as you
know, has special privileges so far as regards bounty, and her Highness
appreciates most heartily the care and kindness which the child has
received at your hands."

I stared at my piece of paper. It was a cheque for five thousand pounds.
I looked at Mabane's. It was a cheque for a like amount. Then I looked
up at the Baron. The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead. He
was watching us as a man might watch one in whose hands lay the power of
life or death. I resisted my first impulse, which was simply to tear the
cheque in two. I simply pushed it back across the table.

"Baron," I said, "if this is meant as a recompense for any kindness
which we have shown to a friendless child, it is unnecessary and
unacceptable. If it is meant," I added more slowly, "for a bribe, it is
not enough."

"Call it what you will," he answered quickly. "Name your own price for
the child--brought here--to-night."

"No price that you or your mistress could pay, Baron," I answered
quietly. "I told you my ultimatum two hours ago. The child remains with
us until she is claimed by one who has a legal right, and is not afraid
to invoke the law."

"But I have explained the position," the Baron protested. "You must
understand why we cannot bring such a matter as this into the courts."

"Your story is ingenious, and, pardon me, it may be true," I answered.
"We require proof!"

The Baron's face was not pleasant to look upon.

"You doubt my word, sir--my word, and the word of the Archduchess?"

I rose to my feet. Mabane followed my example. I felt that a storm was
pending.

"Baron," I said, "there are some causes which make strange demands upon
the best of us. A man may lie to save a woman's honour, or, if he be a
politician, for the good of his country. I cannot discuss this matter
any further with you. My sole regret is that we ever discussed it at
all. My friend and I must wish you good-night."

"By heavens, you shall not go!" the Baron exclaimed. "What right have
you to the child? None at all! Her Highness wishes to be generous. It
pleases you to flout her generosity. Mr. Arnold Greatson, you are a
fool! Don't you see that you are a pigmy, who has stolen through the
back door into the world where great things are dealt with? You have no
place there. You cannot keep the child away from us. You have no
influence, no money. You are nobody. If you think----"

Mabane interposed.

"Baron," he said, "if you were not still, in a sense, our host, I should
knock you down. As it is, permit me to tell you that you are talking
nonsense."

The Baron drew a sharp, quick breath.

"You are right," he said shortly. "I am a fool to discuss this with you
at all. It is not worth while. The Archduchess, out of kindness, would
have treated you as friends. You decline! Good! You shall be treated--as
you deserve."

The Baron threw open the door and bowed us out. The commissionaire
helped us on with our coats and summoned a hansom. We were just driving
off, when a man in a long travelling coat, who had been standing outside
the swing-door of the hotel, calmly swung himself up into the cab and
motioned to us to make room. I stared at him in blank amazement.

"Hullo!" I exclaimed. "What----"

"It is I, my friend," Mr. Grooten answered calmly. "Tell the man to
drive to your rooms."

CHAPTER IV

"I am staying at Claridge's, or rather I was," Mr. Grooten remarked, as
we turned into Brook Street. "I saw you with Leibingen, and I have been
waiting for you. We will talk, I think, at your rooms."

Whereupon he lit a fresh cigarette, and did not speak a word until we
had reached our destination. Isobel had gone to bed, and our
sitting-room was empty. I turned up the lamp, and pushed a chair towards
him. In various small ways he seemed to have succeeded in effecting a
wonderful change in his appearance. His hair was differently arranged,
and much greyer. His face was pale and drawn as though with illness. But
for his voice and his broad, humorous mouth I doubt whether I should
immediately have recognized him.

"I perceive," he said, "that I am not forgotten. It is very flattering!
My friends abroad tell me that I have altered a good deal during the
last twelve months."

"You have altered, without a doubt," I admitted. "But the circumstances
connected with our first meeting were scarcely such as tend towards
forgetfulness. You remember my friend, Mr. Allan Mabane?"

"Perfectly," he assented, with a courteous little wave of the hand. "I
am very glad to have come across you both again so opportunely. I only
arrived in England a few days ago, but I did not hope to have this
pleasure until the morning at the earliest. You expected to have heard
from me, perhaps, before."

"I don't know about that," I answered, "but I can assure you that we are
both very glad to see you, for more reasons than one. There are a good
many things which we are anxious to discuss with you."

"The pleasure, then, is mutual," Mr. Grooten remarked affably. "Isobel
is, I trust, well?"

"She is quite well," I answered.

"You are helping her to spend her time profitably, I am glad to find,"
he continued. "I saw two miniatures of hers yesterday at the Mordaunt
Rooms."

"Isobel has gifts," I said. "We are doing our best to assist her in
their development."

Mr. Grooten raised his eyes to mine. He looked at me steadily.

"Why have you refused to use the money which I placed to your credit at
the National Bank for her?" he asked.

"Because," I answered, "we are not aware what right you have to provide
for her."

Mr. Grooten smiled upon us--much as a sphynx might have smiled. It had
the effect of making us both feel very young.

"My claim," he murmured, "must surely be as good as yours."

"Perhaps," I admitted. "At any rate, the money remains there in her
name. She may find herself in greater need of it later on in life."

Mr. Grooten seemed to find some amusement in the idea.

"No," he said, "I do not think that that is likely. You could safely
have used the money, but as you have not--well, it is of small
consequence. I presume that attempts have been made to withdraw the
child from your care?"

"Several," I told him. "Madame Richard and Lady Delahaye were equally
importunate."

Grooten nodded.

"You have shown," he said, "an admirable discretion in refusing to give
her up to either of them."

"And to-day," I continued, "a third claimant to the care of her has
intervened. The Archduchess of Bristlaw herself has offered to relieve
us of our guardianship."

Mr. Grooten dropped the cigarette which he had only just lit, and seemed
for the moment unconscious of the fact. He made no effort to pick it up.
He quivered as though someone had struck him a blow. For a man whose
impassivity was almost a part of himself he was evidently deeply
agitated.

"The Archduchess--has seen Isobel!" he muttered.

"They met by chance at the Mordaunt Rooms a few afternoons ago," I told
him. "The Archduchess was accompanied by a girl of about Isobel's age.
We came upon them suddenly, and the likeness was so marvellous that we
were all startled. There was something in the nature of a scene. We left
the Gallery at once, but the Archduchess sent one of her suite for me. I
had some conversation with her concerning Isobel."

"Can you repeat it?" Grooten asked.

"In substance--yes," I told him. "The Archduchess plainly hinted that
she believed Isobel to be connected morganatically with her family. She
wished to take her under her own charge and provide for her."

"And you?"

"I thought it best to take some time for reflection. I had some idea of
looking up the history of the Archduchess's family."

"You made no promise?"

"Certainly not. To tell you the truth, I was influenced by the presence
of Lady Delahaye amongst the royal party. I have no faith in Lady
Delahaye's good intentions with regard to Isobel."

Mr. Grooten flashed a quick glance upon me.

"Yet," he said softly, "report says that you and Lady Delahaye have been
very good friends."

"That," I answered, "is beside the mark. I knew her before her marriage,
but I have seen very little of her since. As a matter of fact, our
relations at the present time are scarcely amicable. We have had a
difference of opinion concerning our guardianship of Isobel. Lady
Delahaye does not approve of her presence here with us."

Mr. Grooten smiled.

"That," he said, "is probable. May I proceed to ask a somewhat
impertinent question? You were the guests to-night, I believe, of the
Baron von Leibingen, who is, I understand, a _persona grata_ with the
Archduchess. I presume that your meeting in some way concerned Isobel?"

"Isobel was the sole cause of it," I answered. "The Archduchess is a
woman who perseveres. She declined to consider that my reply to her
first tentative offer was in any way final. She passed the matter on to
the Baron, and certainly until he lost his temper towards the end of our
interview, he was a very efficient ambassador. He proved to us quite
clearly that it was our duty to give Isobel up to those who had a better
right to assume the charge of her, and he wound up by handing us cheques
for--I think it was five thousand pounds each, wasn't it, Allan?"

Mr. Grooten leaned back in his chair and laughed silently, yet with
obvious enjoyment.

"That poor von Leibingen," he murmured, "how he blunders his way through
life! Yet, my friend, I am afraid that this charge which I so
thoughtlessly laid upon you is proving very troublesome. And you
perceive that I do not even offer you a cheque."

Allan suddenly rose up and knocked the ashes from his pipe into the
fire.

"You do not offer us a cheque, Mr. Grooten," he said quietly, "because
you have perceptions. But there is another way in which you can
recompense us for the trifling inconveniences to which we have been put.
You can make our task easier--and more dignified; you can answer a
question which I think I may say that we have an absolute right to ask
you."

Mr. Grooten inclined his head slightly. He made no remark. Allan turned
to me.

"Arnold," he said, "this is more your affair than mine, for it is you
who have borne the brunt of it from the first. I do not wish to
interfere in it unduly. But from every point of view, I think that the
time has come when all this mystery concerning Isobel's antecedents
should be, so far as we are concerned at any rate, cleared up. Our hands
would be immensely strengthened by the knowledge of the truth. Your
friend here, Mr. Grooten, can tell us if he will. Ask him to do so. I
will go further. I will even say that we have a right to insist upon
it."

Mr. Grooten sat immovable. One could scarcely gather from his face that
he had heard a word of Allan's speech.

"You are quite right, Allan," I answered. "Mr. Grooten," I continued,
turning towards him, "you are the best judge as to whether your presence
in this country is altogether wise, but I can assure you that for the
last six months we have looked for you every day, and for this same
reason. We want that question answered. The time has come when, in
common justice to us and the child, the whole thing should be cleared
up. Whatever knowledge rests with you is safe also with us. I think that
we have proved that. I think that we have earned our right to your
complete confidence. Mabane and I you can consider as one in this
matter. You can speak before him as though we were alone. Now tell us
the whole truth."

"I cannot," Mr. Grooten answered simply.

There was a certain crisp definiteness about those two words which
carried conviction with them. Mabane and I were a little staggered. Our
position was such a strong one, our request so reasonable, that I think
that we had never realized the possibility of a refusal.

"May I ask you this?" Mabane said. "Do you expect that we shall continue
our--I suppose we may call it guardianship--of Isobel in the face of
your present attitude?"

"I hope so, for the present," our visitor admitted softly.

"Notwithstanding," Mabane continued, "our absolute ignorance of
everything connected with her, our lack of any sort of claim or title to
the charge of her, and the increasing number of people who still persist
in trying to take her from us?"

Mr. Grooten shrugged his shoulders.

"You omit to mention the factors in the situation which may be said to
be on your side," he murmured.

"I should be interested to know what those are," I remarked.

"Certainly. The first and most powerful of all is, of course,
possession."

Mabane nodded.

"And after that?"

"The fact that not one of the three people who have appealed to you for
the charge of the child is in a position to use the only real force
which exists in this land. I mean the law," Grooten continued.

This kept us silent again for a moment. Mabane, I could see, was getting
a little ruffled.

"You pelt us with enigmas, sir," he said. "You answer our questions only
by propounding fresh conundrums. One thing, at least, you may feel
disposed to tell us. What is your own relationship to Isobel?"

"None," Mr. Grooten answered.

"Your interest, then?"

Mr. Grooten remained silent. He sat in his chair, very still and very
quiet. Yet in his eyes there shone for a moment something which seemed
to bring into the little room the shadow of great things. Mabane and I
both felt it. We had the sense of having been left behind. The little
man in his chair seemed to have been lifted out of our reach into the
mightier world of passion and suffering and self-conquest.

"I loved her mother," he said softly. "I was the man whom her mother
loved."

There was a silence between us then. We had no more to say. We were at
that moment his bounden slaves. But by some evil chance, after a
lengthened pause, he continued--

"I, alas, could do little for the child. Yet when I heard that harm was
threatened to her through that scamp Delahaye, I crossed the ocean at an
hour's notice. I saved her from him. He deserved his fate, but I am no
murderer by profession, and the shock unnerved me for a time. Then----"

"Hush!" Mabane cried.

I sprang to the door. It had been thrust about a foot open. From outside
came the sound of angry voices, followed by a moment's silence. Then a
quick, shrill cry of triumph.

"Let me in. Oh, you shall not stop me now. I am going to see the man who
boasts of being my husband's murderer!"

It was the voice of Lady Delahaye. She was already upon the threshold. I
sprang to the table and saw her coming. Already she was behind the
screen, stealing into the room, her head thrust forward, her lips
parted, a peculiar glitter in her eyes. For a moment I stood rigid. The
sight of her fascinated me--there was something so wholly animal-like in
the stealthy triumph of her tiptoe approach. I recovered myself just in
time. One more step, a turn of her head, and she would have seen
Grooten. My finger pressed down the catch of the lamp, and a sudden
darkness filled the room.

She stopped short. Her fierce little cry of anger told me exactly where
she was. I stepped forward and caught her wrists firmly. Then I faced
where I knew Grooten was still sitting. I could see the red end of his
cigarette still in his mouth.

"Leave the room at once," I said. "You can push the screen on one side,
and you are within a yard of the door then. Please do exactly as I say,
and don't reply."

"Let go my hands, sir! Arnold, how dare you! Let me go, or I'll scream
the place down. Mr. Mabane, you will not permit this?" she cried, in a
fury.

Mabane closed the door through which Grooten had already issued, and I
heard the key turn in the lock. I released Lady Delahaye's hands, and
she sprang away from me. As the flame from the lamp which Allan had just
rekindled gained in power we saw her, still shaking the handle, but with
her back now against the wall turned to face us. She was calmer than I
had expected, but it was a terrible look which she flashed upon us.

[Illustration: She was calmer than I had expected, but it was a terrible
look which she flashed upon us.]

"In how many minutes," she asked, "may I be released?"

Allan whispered in my ear.

"In five minutes, Lady Delahaye," I said. "I regret very much the
necessity for keeping you at all. May I offer you a chair?"

"You may offer me nothing, sir, except your silence," she answered
swiftly.

She meant it too. I know the signs of anger in a woman's face as well as
most men, and they were written there plainly enough. So for a most
uncomfortable period of time we waited there until Allan, after a glance
at his watch, went and opened the door. She passed out without remark,
but from the threshold outside she turned and looked at me.

"I warned you once before, Arnold Greatson," she said, "that you were
meddling with greater concerns than you knew of, and that harm would
come to you for it. Now you have chosen to shield a murderer, and to use
your strength upon a woman. These things will not go unforgotten!"

Mabane closed the door, and threw himself into an easy chair.

"For two easy-going sort of fellows, Arnold," he said to me, "we seem to
be making a lot of enemies. Don't you think it would be a good idea if
we drew stumps for a bit?"

"Meaning?" I asked.

"Roseleys!"

"We'll go to-morrow," I declared.

CHAPTER V

"I have never seen anything like this," Isobel said softly. I looked up
from the writing-pad on my knee, and she met my glance with a smile of
contrition.

"Ah," she said. "I forgot that I must not talk. Indeed, I did not mean
to, but--look!"

I followed her eyes.

"Well," I said, "tell me what you see."

"There are so many beautiful things," she murmured. "Do you see how
thick and green the grass is in the meadows there? How the quaker
grasses glimmer?--you call them so, do you not?--and how those yellow
cowslips shine like gold? What a world of colour it all seems. London is
so grey and cold, and here--look at the sea, and the sky, with all those
dear little fleecy white clouds, and the pink and white of all those
wild roses wound in and out of the hedges. Oh, Arnold, it is all
beautiful!"

"Even without a motor-car!" I remarked.

She looked at me a little resentfully.

"Motoring is very delightful," she said, "although you do not like it.
Of course, it would be nice if Arthur were here!"

She looked away from me seawards, and I found myself studying her
expression with an interest which had something more in it than mere
curiosity. At odd times lately I had fancied that I could see it coming.
To-day, for the first time, I was sure. The smooth transparency of
childhood, the unrestrained but almost animal play of features and eyes,
reproducing with photographic accuracy every small emotion and
joy--these things were passing away. Even before her time the child was
seeking knowledge. As she sat there, with her steadfast eyes fixed upon
the smooth blue line where sea and sky met, who could tell what thoughts
were passing in her mind? Not I, not Mabane, nor any of us into whose
care she had come. Only I knew that she saw new things, that the rush of
a more complex and stronger life was already troubling her, the sweet
pangs of its birth were already tugging at her heartstrings. My pencil
rested idly in my fingers, my eyes, like hers, sought that distant line,
beyond which lies ever the world of one's own creation. What did she see
there, I wondered? Never again should I be able to ask with the full
certainty of knowing all that was in her mind. The time had come for
delicate reserves, the time when the child of yesterday, with the first
faint notes of a new and wonderful song stealing into her heart, must
fence her new modesty around with many sweet elusions and barriers,
fairy creations to be swept aside later on in one glad moment--by the
one chosen person. There was a coldness in my heart when I realized that
the time had come even for the child who had tripped so lightly into our
lives so short a time ago, to pass away from us into that other and more
complex world. It was the decree of sex, nature's immutable law,
sundering playfellows, severing friendships, driving its unwilling
victims into opposite corners of the world, with all the pitilessness of
natural law. Nevertheless, the thought of these things as I looked at
Isobel made me sad. She was young indeed for these days to come, for the
shadows to steal into her eyes, and the song of trouble to grow in her
heart.

"Tell me," I asked softly, "what you see beyond that blue line."

"I can tell you more easily," she said, glancing down with a faint smile
at my empty pages, "what I see by my side--a very lazy man. And," she
continued, crumpling a little ball of heather in her fingers and
throwing it with unerring aim at Allan, "another one over there!"

"My picture," Allan protested, "is finished."

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, preparing to rise, but he waved her back.

"In my mind," he added. "Don't misunderstand me. The casual and ignorant
observer glancing just now at my canvas might come to the same
conclusion as you--a conclusion, by-the-bye, entirely erroneous. I will
admit that my canvas is unspoilt. Nevertheless, my picture is painted."

She looked across at him reproachfully.

"Allan, how dare you!" she exclaimed. "Only Arnold has the right to be
subtle. I have always regarded you as a straightforward and honest
person. Don't disappoint me."

"St. Andrew forbid it!" Allan declared. "My meaning is painfully simple.
I build up my picture first in my mind. Its transmission to canvas is
purely mechanical. Here goes!"

He took up his palette, and in a few moments was hard at work. Isobel
pointed downwards to my writing-pad.

"Can you too match Allan's excuse?" she asked. "Is your story already
written?"

I shook my head.

"I have been watching you," I answered. "Besides, for a perfectly lazy
person, are you not rather a hard task-mistress? Consider that this is
our first day of summer--the first time we have seen the sun make
diamonds on the sea, the first west wind which has come to us with the
scent of cowslips and wild roses. I claim the right to be lazy if I want
to be."

She smiled.

"The poet," she murmured, "finds these things inspiring."

"The poet," I answered, "is an ordinary creature. Nowadays he eats
mutton-chops, plays golf, and has a banking account. The real man of
feeling, Isobel, is the man who knows how to be idle. Believe me, there
is a certain vulgarity in seeking to make a stock-in-trade of these
delicious moments."

"That is not fair," she protested. "How should we all live if none of
you did any work?"

"For your age, Isobel," I declared seriously, "you are very nearly a
practical person. You make me more than ever anxious for an answer to my
last question. What were you thinking of just now?"

Her eyes seemed to drift away from mine. A touch of her new seriousness
returned. She pointed to that thin blue line.

"Beyond there," she said, "is to-morrow, and all the to-morrows to come.
One sees a very little way."

"Our limitations," I answered, "are life's lesson to us. If to-morrow is
hidden, so much the more reason that we should live to-day."

"Without thought for the morrow?"

"Without care for it," I answered. "Are we not Bohemians, and is it not
our text?"

She shook her head.

"It is not yours," she answered slowly. "I am sure of that."

I looked at her quickly.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say," she answered gravely. "Men and women to whom the
present is sufficient surely cannot achieve very much in life. All the
time they must concentrate powers which need expansion. I think that it
must be those who try to climb the walls, those even who tear their
fingers and their hearts in the great struggle for freedom, who can make
themselves capable of great things, even if escape is impossible. But I
do not think that escape is so impossible after all, is it? There have
been men, and women too, who have lived in all times, to whom there have
been no to-morrows or any yesterdays. Only it seems rather hard that
life for those who seek it must always be a battle!"

I did not answer her for several minutes. It was true, then, that the
old days had passed away. Isobel, the child whom we had known and loved
so well, had disappeared. It was Isobel the incomprehensible who was
taking her place. What might the change not mean for us?...

Later we walked back over an open heath yellow with gorse, and faintly
pink with the promise of the heather to come. Isobel carried her hat in
her hand. She walked with her head thrown back, and a smile playing
every now and then upon her lips. She was so completely absorbed that I
found myself every now and then watching her, half expecting, I believe,
to find some physical change to accord with that other more mysterious
evolution. She walked with all the grace of long limbs and unfettered
clothing. Her figure, though perfectly graceful, and with that same
peculiar distinction which had first attracted me, was as yet wholly
immature. But in the face itself there were signs of a coming change.
Wherein it might lie I could not tell, but it was there, an intangible
and wholly elusive thing. I think that a certain fear of it and what it
might mean oppressed me with the sense of coming trouble. I was more
fully conscious then than ever before of the moral responsibility of our
peculiar charge.

We crossed a straight dusty road, cleaving the rolling moor like a belt
of ribbon. Isobel looked thoughtfully along it.

"I wonder," she said, "when Arthur will come down!"

The folly of a man is a thing sometimes outside his own power of
control. A second before I had been wondering of whom and what she had
been thinking.

"Not just yet, I'm afraid," Allan answered, stopping to light his pipe.
"It is not easy for him to get backwards and forwards, and I believe
that he is by way of being rather busy just now."

"What a nuisance!" Isobel declared, looking behind her regretfully. "The
roads about here seem so good."

"The roads are good, but the heath is better," Allan answered. "I will
race you for half a pound of chocolates to that clump of pines!"

"You are such a slow starter," she laughed, bounding away before he had
time to drop his easel. "Make it a pound!"

I picked up Allan's easel and strolled away after them. Was it the
motoring, I wondered, which had prompted her half-wistful question, or
had I been wise too late? Arthur had been very confident. So much that
he had said had carried with it a certain ring of truth. Youth and the
temperament of youth were surely irresistible. Like calls to like across
the garden of spring flowers with a cry which no interloper can still,
no wanderer of later years can stifle. Somehow it seemed to me just then
that the sun had ceased to shine, and a touch of winter after all was
lingering in the western breeze....

They disappeared round the pine plantation, Isobel leading by a few
yards, her skirts blowing in the wind, running still with superb and
untired grace. I climbed a bank to gain a better view of the finish, and
became suddenly aware that I was not the only interested spectator of
their struggle. About a hundred yards to my left a man was standing on
the top of the same bank, a pair of field-glasses glued to his eyes,
watching intently the spot where they might be expected to reappear. The
sight of him took me by surprise. A few moments ago I could have sworn
that there was not a human being within a mile of us. There was only one
explanation of his appearance. He must have been concealed in the dry
mossy ditch at the foot of the bank. It was possible, of course, that he
might have been like us, a casual way-farer, and yet the suddenness of
his appearance, the intentness of his watch, both had their effect upon
me. I moved a few yards towards him, with what object I perhaps scarcely
knew. A dry twig snapped beneath my feet. He became suddenly aware of my
approach. Then, indeed, my suspicions took definite shape, for without a
moment's hesitation the man turned and strode away in the opposite
direction.

I shouted to him. He took no notice. I shouted again, and he only
increased his pace. I watched him disappear, and I no longer had any
doubts at all. He was not in the least like a tramp, and his flight
could bear but one interpretation. Isobel was not safe even here. We had
been followed from London--we were being watched every hour. For the
first time I began seriously to doubt what the end of these things might
be.

CHAPTER VI

"Silence and perfume and moon-flooded meadows," Allan murmured. "Arnold,
we shall all become corrupted. You will take to writing pastorals, and
I--I--"

Isobel, from her seat between us, smiled up at him. Touched by the
yellow moonlight, her face seemed almost ethereal.

"You," she said, "should paint a vision of the 'enchanted land.' You see
those blurred woods, and the fields sloping up to the mists? Isn't that
a perfect impression of the world unseen, half understood? Oh, how can
you talk of such a place corrupting anybody, Allan!"

"I withdraw the term," he answered. "Yet Arnold knows what I meant very
well. This place soothes while the city frets. Which state of mind do
you think, Miss Isobel, draws from a man his best work?"

"Don't ask me enigmas, Allan," she murmured. "I am too happy to think,
too happy to want to do anything more than exist. I wish we lived here
always! Why didn't we come here long ago?"

"You forget the wonders of our climate," I remarked. "A month ago you
might have stood where you are now, and seen nothing. You would have
shivered with the cold. The field scents, the birds, the very insects
were unborn. It is all a matter of seasons. What to-day is beautiful was
yesterday a desert."

She shook her head slowly. Bareheaded, she was leaning now over the
little gate, and her eyes sought the stars.

"I will not believe it," she declared. "I will not believe that it is
not always beautiful here. Arnold, Allan, can you smell the
honeysuckle?"

"And the hay," Allan answered, smoking vigorously. "To-morrow we shall
be sneezing every few minutes. Have you ever had hay fever, Isobel?"

She laughed at him scornfully.

"You poor old thing!" she exclaimed. "You should wear a hat."

"A hat," Allan protested, "is of no avail against hay fever. It's the
most insidious thing in the world, and is no respecter of youth. You, my
dear Isobel, might be its first victim."

"Pooh! I catch nothing!" she declared, "and you mustn't either. I'm sure
you ought to be able to paint some beautiful pictures down here, Allan.
And, Arnold, you shall have your writing-table out under the chestnut
tree there. You will be so comfortable, and I'm sure you'll be able to
finish your story splendidly."

"You are very anxious to dispose of us all here, Isobel," I remarked.
"What do you propose to do yourself?"

"Oh, paint a little, I suppose," she answered, "and--think! There is so
much to think about here."

I shook my head.

"I am beginning to wonder," I said, "whether we did wisely to bring
you."

"And why?"

"This thinking you are speaking of. It is bad!"

"You are foolish! Why should I not want to think?"

"If you begin to think you will begin to doubt," I answered, "and if you
begin to doubt you will begin to understand. The person who once
understands, you know, is never again really happy."

Isobel came and stood in front of me.

"Arnold!" she said.

"Well?"

"I wish you wouldn't talk to me always as though I were a baby," she
said thoughtfully.

I took her hand and made her sit down by my side.

"Come," I protested, "that is not at all fair. I can assure you that I
was taking you most seriously. The people who get most out of life are
the people who avoid the analytical attitude, who enjoy but who do not
seek to understand, who worship form and external beauty without the
desire to penetrate below to understand the inner meaning of what they
find so beautiful."

"That," she said, "sounds a little difficult. But I do not see how
people can enjoy meaningless things."

"The source of all beauty is disillusioning."

"Seriously," Mabane interrupted, "if this conversation develops I am
going indoors. Does Arnold want to penetrate into the hidden meaning of
that cricket's chirp--or is he going to give us the chemical formula for
the smell of the honeysuckle?"

Isobel laughed.

"He is rather trying to-night, isn't he?" she declared. "Listen! Is that
someone going by?"

The footsteps of a man were clearly audible passing along the dusty
little strip of road which fronted our cottage. Leaning forward I saw a
tall, dark figure pass slowly by. From his height and upright carriage I
thought that it must be the village policeman, and I called out
good-night. My greeting met with no response. I shrugged my shoulders.

"Some of these village people are not particularly civil!" I remarked.

Mabane rose to his feet and strolled to the hedge.

"Those were not the footsteps of a villager," he remarked. "Listen!"

We stood quite still. The footsteps had ceased, although there was no
other habitation for more than half a mile along the road. We could see
nothing, but I noticed that Mabane was leaning a little forward and
gazing with a curious intentness at the open common on the other side of
the road. He stood up presently and knocked the ashes from his pipe.

"What do you say to a drink, Arnold?" he suggested.

"Come along!" I answered. "There's some whisky and soda on the
sideboard."

Isobel laughed at us. She would have lingered where she was, but Allan
passed his arm through hers.

"Sentiment must not make you lazy, Isobel," he declared. "I decline to
mix my own whisky and soda. Arnold," he whispered, drawing me back as
she stepped past us through the wide-open window, "I wonder if it has
occurred to you that if any of our friends who are so anxious to obtain
possession of Isobel were to attempt a coup down here, we should be
rather in a mess. We're a mile from the village, and Lord knows how many
from a police-station, and there isn't a door in the cottage a man
couldn't break open with his fist."

"What made you think of it--just now?" I asked.

"Three men passed by, following that last fellow--on the edge of the
common. I've got eyes like a cat in the dark, you know, and I could see
that they were trying to get by unnoticed. Of course, there may be
nothing in it, but--thanks, Isobel! By Jove, that's good!"

I slipped upstairs to my room, and on my return handed Allan something
which he thrust quietly into his pocket. Then we went out again into the
garden. I drew Mabane on one side for a moment.

"I don't think there's anything in it, Allan," I whispered. "It would be
too clumsy for any of our friends--and too risky."

"It needn't be either," Allan answered, "but I daresay you're right."

Then we hastened once more to the front gate, summoned there by Isobel's
cry.

"Listen!" she exclaimed, holding up her hand.

We stood by her side. From somewhere out of the night there came to our
ears the faint distant throbbing of an engine. Neither Allan nor I
realized what it was, but Isobel, who had stepped out on to the road,
knew at once.

"Look!" she cried suddenly.

We followed her outstretched finger. Far away on the top of a distant
hill, but moving towards us all the time with marvellous swiftness, we
saw a small but brilliant light.

"A motor bicycle!" she cried. "I believe it is Arthur. It sounds just
like his machine."

Arthur it was, white with dust and breathless. His first greeting was
for Isobel, who welcomed him with both hands outstretched and a delight
which she made no effort to conceal, overwhelming him with questions,
frankly joyful at his coming. Mabane and I stood silent in the
background, and we avoided each other's eyes. It was at that moment,
perhaps, that I for the first time realized the tragedy into which we
were slowly drifting. Isobel had forgotten us. She was wholly absorbed
in her joy at Arthur's unexpected appearance. The thing which in my
quieter moments had begun already vaguely to trouble me--a thing of slow
and painful growth--assumed for the first time a certain definiteness. I
looked a little way into the future, and it seemed to me that there were
evil times coming.

Arthur approached us presently with outstretched hand. His manner was
half apologetic, half triumphant. He seemed to be saying to himself that
Isobel's reception of him must surely have opened our eyes.

"Your coming, I suppose, Arthur," Mabane said quietly, "signifies----"

"That I accept your terms for the present," Arthur answered, in a low
tone. "I had to see you. There are strangers continually watching our
diggings, and making inquiries about Isobel. There are things happening
which I cannot understand at all."

I glanced towards Isobel.

"We will talk about it after she has gone to bed," I said. "Come in and
have some supper now."

He drew me a little on one side.

"You remember the chap who was with the Archduchess at the Mordaunt
Rooms?"

"Yes!"

"He was at the hotel in Guildford when I stopped for tea, with two other
men. They're in a great Daimter car, and they're coming this way. I
heard them ask about the roads."

"How far were they behind you?" I asked.

"They must be close up," he answered. "Listen!"

"Another motor!" Isobel cried suddenly. "Can you not hear it?"

There was no mistaking the sound, the deep, low throbbing of a powerful
engine as yet some distance away. I was conscious of a curious sense of
uneasiness.

"Isobel," I said, "would you mind going indoors!"

"Indoors indeed!" she laughed. "But no. I must see this motor-car."

I stepped quickly up to her, and laid my hand upon her arm.

"Isobel," I said earnestly, "you do not understand. I do not wish to
frighten you, but I am afraid that the men in this car are coming here,
and it is better that you should be out of the way. They want to take
you from us. Go inside and lock yourself in your room."

She looked at me half puzzled, half resentful. The car was close at hand
now. We ourselves were almost in the path of its flaring searchlights.

"Arnold, you are joking, of course!" she exclaimed. "They cannot take me
away. I would not go."

The car had stopped. It contained four men, one of whom at once alighted
and advanced towards us. I knew him by his voice and figure. It was the
Baron von Leibingen!

CHAPTER VII

I made no movement towards opening the gate. The newcomer advanced to
within a few feet of me, and then paused. He leaned a little forward. He
was doubtful, as I could see, of my identity.

"Can you tell me," he asked, raising his hat, "if this is Roseleys
Cottage, the residence of Mr. Arnold Greatson?"

"Do you forget all your acquaintances so quickly, Baron?" I answered.
"This is Roseleys, and I am Arnold Greatson!"

"Your voice," he declared, "is sufficient. I can assure you that it is a
matter of eyesight, not of memory. In the dark I am always as blind as a
bat."

"It is," I remarked, "a very common happening. You are motoring, I see.
You have chosen a very delightful night, but are you not--pardon me--a
little off the track? You are on your way to the South Coast, I
presume?"

"On the contrary," the Baron answered, "our destination is here. Will
you permit me to apologise for the lateness of my visit? We were
unfortunately delayed for several hours by a mishap to our automobile,
or I should have had the honour of presenting myself during the
afternoon."

I did not offer to move.

"Perhaps," I said, "as it is certainly very late, and we were on the
point of retiring, you will permit me to inquire at once into the nature
of the business which procures for me the honour of this visit."

My visitor paused. His hand was upon the gate. So was mine, keeping it
all the time fast closed.

"You will permit me?" he said, making an attempt to enter.

"I regret," I answered, "that at this late hour I am not prepared to
offer you any hospitality. If you will come and see me to-morrow morning
I shall be happy to hear what you have to say."

My visitor did not remove his hand from the gate. It seemed to me that
his tone became more belligerent.

"You are discomposed to see us, Mr. Greatson," he said, "me and my
friends. As you see," he added, with a little wave of his hand, "I am
not alone. I have only to regret that you have made this visit
necessary. We have come to induce you, if possible, to change your mind,
and to give up the young lady in whom the Archduchess has been
graciously pleased to interest herself to those who have a better claim
upon her."

"It is not a matter," I answered, "which I am prepared to discuss at
this hour--or with you!"

"As to that," the young man answered, "I am the envoy of her Royal
Highness, as I can speedily convince you if you will."

"It is unnecessary," I answered. "The Archduchess has already had my
answer. Will you allow me to wish you good-night?"

"I wish, Mr. Greatson," the young man said, "that you would discuss this
matter with me in a reasonable spirit."

"At a reasonable hour," I answered, "I might be prepared to do so. But
certainly not now."

It seemed to me that his hand upon the gate tightened. He certainly
showed no signs of accepting the dismissal which I was trying to force
upon him.

"I have endeavoured to explain my late arrival," he said. "You must not
believe me guilty of wilful discourtesy. As for the rest, Mr. Greatson,
what does it matter whether the hour is late or early? The matter is an
important one. Between ourselves, her Highness has made up her mind to
undertake the charge of the young lady, and I may tell you that when her
Highness has made up her mind to anything she is not one to be
disappointed."

"In her own country," I said, "the will of the Archduchess is doubtless
paramount. Out here, however, she must take her chance amongst the
others."

"But you have no claim--no shadow of a claim upon the child," the Baron
declared.

"If the Archduchess thinks she has a better," I answered, "the law
courts are open to her."

My visitor was apparently becoming annoyed. There were traces of
irritation in his tone.

"Do you imagine, my dear Mr. Greatson," he said, "that her Highness can
possibly desire to bring before the notice of the world the peccadiloes
of her illustrious relative? No, the law courts are not to be thought
of. We rely upon your good sense!"

"And failing that?"

The Baron hesitated. It seemed to me that he was peering into the
shadows beyond the hedge.

"The position," he murmured, "is a singular one. Where neither side for
different reasons is disposed to submit its case to the courts, then it
must be admitted that possession becomes a very important feature in the
case."

"That," I remarked, "is entirely my view. May I take the liberty, Baron
von Leibingen, of wishing you good-night? I see no advantage in
continuing this discussion."

"Possession for the moment," he said slowly, "is with you. Have you
reflected, Mr. Greatson, that it may not always be so?"

"Will you favour me," I said, "by becoming a little more explicit?"

"With pleasure," the Baron answered quickly. "I have three friends here
with me, and we are all armed. Your cottage is surrounded by half a
dozen more--friends--who are also armed. We are here to take Isobel de
Sorrens back with us, and we mean to do it. On my honour, Mr. Greatson,
no harm is intended to her. She will be as safe with the Archduchess as
with her own mother."

"If you don't take your hand off my gate in two seconds," I said, "you
will regret it all your life."

He sprang forward, but I fired over his shoulder, and with an oath he
backed into the road. Isobel meanwhile, now thoroughly alarmed, turned
and ran towards the house, only to find the path already blocked by two
men, who had stepped silently out from the low hedge which separated the
garden from the fields beyond. Allan promptly knocked one of them down,
only to find himself struggling with the other. Isobel, whose skirts
were caught by the fallen man, tried in vain to release herself. I dared
scarcely turn my head, for my levelled revolver was keeping in check the
Baron and his three friends.

"Baron," I said, "your methods savour a little too much of comic opera.
You have mistaken your country and--us. There are three of us, and if
you force us to fight--well, we shall fight. The advantage of numbers is
with you, I admit. For the rest, if you succeed to-night you will be in
the police court to-morrow."

The Baron made no answer. I felt that he was watching the struggle which
was going on behind my back. I heard Isobel shriek, and the sound
maddened me. I left it to the Baron to do his worst. I sprang backwards,
and brought the butt end of my revolver down upon the skull of the man
who was dragging her across the lawn. Then I passed my arm round her
waist, and called out once more to the Baron who had passed through the
gate, and was coming rapidly towards us.

"You fool!" I cried. "Unless you call off your hired gang and leave this
place at once, every newspaper in London shall advertise Isobel's name
and presence here to-morrow."

It was a chance shot, but it went home. I saw him stop short, and I
heard his little broken exclamation.

"But you do not know who she is?" he cried.

"I know very well indeed," I answered.

Just then Mabane broke loose from the man with whom he had been
struggling, and rushed to Arthur's assistance. The Baron raised his hand
and shouted something in German. Instantly our assailants seemed to melt
away. The Baron stepped on to the strip of lawn and raised his hand.

"I call a truce, Mr. Greatson," he said. "I desire to speak with you."

I released my hold upon Isobel and turned to Mabane. Arthur too,
breathless but unhurt, had struggled to his feet.

"Take her into the house," I said quickly. But her grasp only tightened
upon my arm.

"I will not leave you, Arnold," she said. "I shall stay here. They will
not dare to touch me."

I tried to disengage her arm, but she was persistent. She took no notice
of Allan, who tried to lead her away. I stole a glance at her through
the darkness. Her face was white, but there were no signs of fear there,
nor were there any signs of childishness in her manner or bearing. She
carried herself like an angry young princess, and her eyes seemed lit
with smouldering fire, as clinging to my arm she leaned a little
forwards toward the Baron.

"Why am I spoken of," she cried passionately, "as though I were a baby,
a thing of no account, to be carried away to your mistress or disposed
of according to your liking? Do you think that I would come, Baron von
Leibingen----"

She broke off suddenly. She leaned a little further forward. Her lips
were parted. The fire in her eyes had given way to a great wonder, and
the breathlessness of her silence was like a thing to be felt. It held
us all dumb. We waited--we scarcely knew for what. Only we knew that she
had something more to say, and we were impelled to wait for her words.

"I have seen you before," she cried, with a strange note of wonder in
her tone. "Your face comes back to me--only it was a long time ago--a
long, long time! Where was it, Baron von Leibingen?"

I heard his smothered exclamation. He drew quickly a step backwards as
though he sought to evade her searching gaze.

"You are mistaken, young lady," he said. "I know nothing of you beyond
the fact that the lady whom I have the honour to serve desires to be
your friend."

"It is not true," she answered. "I remember you--a long way back--and
the memory comes to me like an evil thought. I will not come to you. You
may kill me, but I will not come alive."

"Indeed you are mistaken," he persisted, though he sought still the
shadow of a rhododendron bush, and his voice quivered with nervous
anxiety. "You have never seen me before. Surely the Archduchess, the
daughter of a King, is not one whose proffered kindness it is well to
slight? Think again, young lady. Her Highness will make your future her
special charge!"

"If your visit to-night, sir," she answered, "is a mark of the
Archduchess's good-will to me, I can well dispense with it. I have given
you my answer."

"You will remember, Baron," I said, speaking at random, but gravely, and
as though some special meaning lurked in my words, "that this young lady
comes of a race who do not readily change. She has made her choice, and
her answer to you is my answer. She will remain with us!"

The Baron stepped out again into the rich-scented twilight.

"You hold strong cards, Mr. Arnold Greatson," he said, "but I see their
backs only. How do I know that you speak the truth? From whom have you
learnt the story of this young lady's antecedents?"

"From Mr. Grooten," I answered boldly.

"I do not know the name," the Baron protested.

"He is the man," I said, "who set Isobel free!"

The Baron said something to himself in German, which I did not
understand.

"You mean the man who shot Major Delahaye?" he asked.

"I do!"

"Then I would to Heaven I knew whose identity that name conceals," he
cried fiercely.

"You would not dare to publish it," I answered, "for to do so would be
to give Isobel's story to the world."

"And why should I shrink from that?" he asked.

I laughed.

"Ask your august mistress," I declared. "It seems to me that we know
more than you think."

The Baron looked over his shoulder and spoke to his companions. From
that moment I knew that we had conquered. One of them left and went
outside to where the motor-car, with its great flaring lights, still
stood. Then the Baron faced me once more.

"Mr. Greatson," he said, "you are playing a game of your own, and for
the moment I must admit that you hold the tricks against me. But it is
well that I should give you once more this warning. If you should decide
upon taking one false step--you perhaps know very well what I
mean--things will go ill with you--very ill indeed."

Then he turned away, and our little garden was freed from the presence
of all of them. We heard the starting of the car. Presently it glided
away. We listened to its throbbing growing fainter and fainter in the
distance. Then there was silence. A faint breeze had sprung up, and was
rustling in the shrubs. From somewhere across the moor we heard the
melancholy cry of the corncrakes. A great sob of relief broke from
Isobel's throat--then suddenly her arm grew heavy upon mine. We hurried
her into the house.

CHAPTER VIII

The perfume from a drooping lilac-bush a few feet away from the open
casement was mingled with the fainter odour of jessamine and homely
stocks. In the soft morning sunshine the terrors of last night seemed a
thing far removed from us. We sat at breakfast in our little
sitting-room, and as though by common though unspoken consent we treated
the whole affair as a gigantic joke. We ignored its darker aspect. We
spoke of it as an "opera-bouffe" attempt never likely to be
repeated--the hare-brained scheme of a mad foreigner, over anxious to
earn the favour of his mistress. But beneath all our light talk was an
undernote of seriousness. I think that Mabane and I, at any rate,
realized perhaps for the first time that the situation, so far as Isobel
was concerned, was fast becoming an impossible one.

After breakfast we all strolled out into the garden. Isobel, with her
hands full of flowers, flitted in and out amongst the rose-bushes,
laughing and talking with all the invincible gaiety of light-hearted
youth, and Arthur hung all the while about her, his eyes following her
every movement, telling her all the while by every action and look--if
indeed the time had come for her to discern such things--all that our
compact forbade him to utter. Presently I slipped away, and shutting
myself up in the tiny room where I worked, drew out my papers. In a few
minutes I had made a start. I passed with a little unconscious sigh of
relief into the detachment which was fast becoming the one luxury of my
life.

An hour may have passed, perhaps more, when I was interrupted. I heard
the door softly opened, and light footsteps crossed the room to my side.
Isobel's hand rested on my shoulder, and she looked down at my work.

"Arnold," she exclaimed, "how dare you! You promised to read your story
when you had finished six chapters, and you are working on chapter
twenty now!"

Her long white forefinger pointed accusingly to the heading of my last
page. Then I realized with a sudden flash of apprehension why I had not
kept my promise--why I could never keep it. The story which flowed so
smoothly from my pen was a record of my own emotions, my own sufferings.
Even her name had usurped the name of my heroine, and stared up at me
from the half-finished page. It was my own story which was written
there, my own unhappiness which throbbed through every word and
sentence. With a little nervous gesture I covered over the open sheets.
I rose hastily to my feet, and I drew her away from the table.

"Another time, Isobel," I said. "It is too glorious a day to spend
indoors, and Arthur has taken holiday too. Tell me, what shall we do?"

She looked at me a little doubtfully. I had grown into the habit of
consulting her about my work, of reading most of it to her. Sometimes,
too, she acted as my secretary. Perhaps she saw something of the trouble
in my face, for she answered me very softly.

"I should like," she said, "to sit there before the open window on a
cushion, and to have you sit down in that easy-chair and read to me.
That is how I choose to spend the morning!"

I shook my head.

"How about the others?" I asked.

"Oh, Arthur and Allan can go for a walk!" she declared.

"What selfishness," I answered, as lightly as I could. "Arthur must go
back to town to-night, he says. I think that we ought all to spend the
day together, don't you? I rather thought that you young people would
have been off somewhere directly after breakfast."

She looked at me earnestly.

"Of course," she said, "if you want to be left alone----"

"But I don't," I interrupted, reaching for my hat. "I want to come too."

"You nice old thing!" she exclaimed, passing her arm through mine.
"We'll walk to Heather Hill. Arthur says that we can see the sea from
there. Come along!"

So we started away, the four of us together. Presently, however, Arthur
and Isobel drew away in front. Allan, with a little grunt, stopped to
light his pipe.

"Arthur may keep his compact in the letter," he said, "but in the spirit
he breaks it every time their eyes meet. You can't blame him. It's human
nature, after all--the gravitation of youth. Arnold, I'm afraid you
awoke to your responsibilities too late."

"You think--that she understands?" I asked quietly.

"Why not? She is almost a woman, and she is older than her years. Look
at them now. He wants to talk seriously, and she is teasing him all the
time. She has the instinct of her sex. She will conceal what she feels
until the--psychological moment. But she does feel--she begins to
understand. I am sure of it. Watch them!"

We kept silence for a while, I myself struggling with a sickening sense
of despair against this newborn and most colossal folly. I think that I
was always possessed of an average amount of self-control, but my great
fear now was lest my secret should in any way escape me. Mabane's words
had carried conviction with them. Life itself for these few deadly
minutes seemed changed. The birds had ceased to sing, and the warmth of
the sunshine had faded out of the fluttering east wind. I saw no longer
the heath starred with yellow and purple blooms, the distant line of
blue hills. The turf was no longer springy beneath my feet, a grey mist
hung over the joyous summer morning. I was back again on my way from Bow
Street, threading a difficult passage through the market baskets of
Covent Garden, the child stepping blithely by my side, graceful even
then, notwithstanding her immatureness, and quaintly attractive, though
her deep blue eyes were full of tears, and the white terror had not
passed wholly from her face. It was those few moments of her complete
and trustful helplessness which had transformed my life for me, those
few moments in which the huge folly of these later days had been born.
For her very coming seemed to have been at a chosen time--at one of
those periods of weariness which a man must feel whose sympathy with and
desire for life leads him into many and devious forms of distraction,
only to find in time the same dregs at the bottom of the cup. The joy of
her fresh childish beauty, her pure sweet trustfulness, at all times a
delicate flattery to any man, just the more so to me, a little inclined
towards self-distrust, was like a fragrant, a heart-stirring memory even
now. I looked back upon these years which lay between her youth and my
fast approaching middle-age--grey, weary years, whose follies seemed now
to rise up and stalk by my side, the ghosts of misspent days, ghosts of
the sickly reasonings of a sham philosophy which lead into the broad way
because its thoroughfares are easy and pleasant, and pressed by the
feet of the great majority. I kept my eyes fixed upon the ground and
I felt that strange thrill of despair pulling at my heartstrings,
dragging me downwards--the despair which is almost akin to physical
suffering.... And then a voice came floating back to me down the west
wind. Its call at such a moment seemed almost symbolical.

"Come along, you very lazy people! Arnold, may I walk with you for a
little way? Arthur is not at all brilliant this morning, and he does not
amuse me."

"I am afraid," I began, "that as an entertainer----"

"Oh, you want to smoke your pipe in peace, of course," she interrupted,
laughing, and passing her arm through mine. "Well, I am not going to
allow it. I want you--to tell me things."

So our little procession was re-formed. Mabane, and Arthur with his
hands deep in his pockets and an angry frown upon his forehead, walked
on ahead. Behind came Isobel and I--Isobel with her hands clasped behind
her, her head a little thrown back, a faint, wistful smile lightening
the unusual gravity of her face. I looked at her in wonder.

"Come," I said, "what are the things you want me to talk to you about,
and why are you tired of talking nonsense with Arthur?"

She did not look at me, but the smile faded from her lips. Her eyes were
still fixed steadily ahead.

"I believe you think, Arnold," she said quietly, "that I am still a
baby!"

I saw her lips quiver for a moment, and my selfishness melted away. I
thought only of her.

"No, I do not think that, Isobel," I said gently. "Only if I were you I
would not be in too great a hurry to grow up. It is when one is young,
after all, that one walks in the gardens of life. Afterwards--when one
has passed through the portals--outside the roads are dusty, and the way
a little wearisome. Stay in the gardens, Isobel, as long as you can.
Believe me, that life outside has many disappointments and many sorrows.
Your time will come soon enough."

She smiled at me a little enigmatically.

"And you?" she asked, "have you closed the gates of the garden behind
you?"

"I am nearer forty than thirty," I answered. "I have grey hairs, and I
am getting a little bald. I may still be of some use in the world, and
there are very beautiful places where I may rest, and even find
happiness. But they are not like the gardens of youth. There is no other
place like them. All of us who have hurried so eagerly away, Isobel,
look back sometimes--and long!"

She shook her head. Perhaps a little of the sadness of my mood had after
all found its way into my tone, for she looked at me with the shadow of
a reproach in her deep blue eyes, a faint tenderness which seemed to me
more beautiful than anything I had ever seen.

"I do not think that I like your allegory, Arnold," she said. "After
all, the gardens are the nursery of life, are they not? The great things
of the world are all outside."

I held my breath for a moment in amazement. Since when had thoughts like
this come to her? I knew then that the days of her childhood were
numbered indeed, that, underneath the fresh joyous grace of her
delightful youth, the woman's instincts were stirring. And I was afraid!

"The great things, Isobel," I said slowly, "look very fine from a
distance, but the power of accomplishment is not given to all of us.
Every triumph and every success has its reverse side, its sorrowful
side. For instance, the whole judgment of the world is by comparison. A
great picture which brings fame to a man eclipses the work and lessens
the reputation of another. A successful book takes not a place of its
own, but the place of another man's work who must needs suffer for your
success. Life is a battle truly enough, but it is always civil war, the
striving of humanity against itself. That is why what looks so great to
you from behind the hedge may seem a very hollow thing when you have won
the power to call it your own."

She looked at me as though wondering how far I were in earnest.

"I think," she said, smiling, "that you are trying to confuse me. Of
course, I have not thought much about such things, but when I am a
little older, if there was anything I could do I should simply try to do
it in the best possible way, and I should feel that I was doing what was
right. There is room for a great many people in the world, Arnold--a
great many novelists and a great many artists and a great many thinkers!
Some of us must be content with lesser places. I for one!..."

I walked home with Allan, and I spoke to him seriously.

"There is a duty before us," I said, "which up to now we have shirked.
The time has come when we must undertake it in earnest."

"You mean?"

"We must abandon our negative attitude. Isobel comes, I am very sure,
from no ordinary people. We must find out her place in life and restore
her to it. She is a child no longer. It is not fitting that she should
stay with us."

Mabane, too, was for a moment sad and silent. His face fell into stern
lines, but when he answered me his tone was steady and resolute enough.

"You are right, Arnold," he answered. "We had better go back to London
and begin at once."

It was perhaps a little ominous that I should find waiting for me on our
return a telegram from Grooten:

"I must see you to-night. Shall call at your rooms twelve o'clock."

CHAPTER IX

Isobel interrupted the discussion with an imperative little tap upon the
table.

"Please listen, all of you!" she exclaimed. "I have something to say,
and an invitation for you all."

We had been dining at a little Italian restaurant on our way home, and
over our coffee had been considering how to spend the rest of the
evening. Arthur had declared for a music hall; Mabane and I were
indifferent. Isobel up to now had said nothing.

"All my life," she said slowly, "I have been wanting to see Feurgéres.
He is in London for one week with Rejani, and if we can get seats I am
going to take you all. I have twenty pounds in my pocket from that nice
man Mr. Grooten, who bought my other miniature, and I want to spend some
of it."

Arthur, who understood no French, shook his head.

"Not the slightest chance of seats," he declared. "They've all been
booked for weeks."

"They often have some returned at the theatre," Isobel answered. "At
least, if you others do not mind, we will go and see."

"Your proposal, Isobel," Allan said gravely, "indicates a certain amount
of recklessness which reflects little credit upon us, your guardians. I
propose----"

"Please do not be tiresome!" she interrupted. "Arnold, you will come
with me, will you not?"

"I shall be delighted," I answered. "I am sure that we all shall. Only I
am afraid that we shall not get in."

We paid the bill and walked to the theatre. The man at the ticket-office
shook his head at our request for seats. People had been waiting in the
streets since morning for the unreserved places, and the others had been
booked weeks ago. But as we were turning away the telephone in his
office rang, and he called us back.

"I have just had four stalls returned," he said. "You can have them, if
you like."

"We are in morning dress," I remarked doubtfully.

"They are in the back row, so you can have them if you care to," he
answered.

"What luck!" Isobel exclaimed, delighted. "Arnold, how glorious! Here is
my purse. Will you pay for me, please?"

So we went in just as the curtain rose upon the first act of Rostand's
great play. The house was packed with an immense audience. One box
alone, the stage box on the left, was empty. I leaned over to Isobel,
and would have told her the story which all the world knew.

"You see that box?" I whispered. "Wherever he plays it is always empty."

"I know," she answered. "His wife used to sit there--always in the same
place; and after her death, whatever theatre he played at, he always
insisted upon having it kept empty. They say that on great nights, when
the people go almost wild with enthusiasm, he looks into the shadows
there almost as though he really saw her still sitting in her old place.
It is a beautiful story."

"Done for effect!" Arthur muttered, and was promptly snubbed, as he
deserved. They were friends again immediately afterwards, however, and I
saw him attempt to hold her hand for a moment. Decidedly it was time
that we carried out our new resolution.

I think that from the moment I took my seat I was conscious in some
mysterious way of the coming of great things. There was a thrill of
excitement in the air, a sort of stifled electricity which one realizes
often amongst a highly cultured audience awaiting the production of a
great work. But apart from this sensation of which I was fully
conscious, I felt a curious sense of nervousness stealing in upon me for
which I could in no way account. I knew what it meant only when, amidst
a storm of cheers, Feurgéres entered. Then indeed I knew.

I kept silent, for which I was thankful, but the programme in my hand
was crumpled into a little ball, and the figures upon the stage moved as
though in a mist before my eyes. Isobel noticed nothing, for her whole
breathless attention was riveted upon the play. I came to myself with
the rich sweet voice of the man, so tender, so infinitely pathetic,
ringing with a curious familiarity in my ears. From that moment I
followed the movement of the play.

The curtain went down upon the first act amidst a silence so intense
that it seemed as though people might be listening still for the echoes
of that sad, sweet voice which had been playing so effectively upon
their heartstrings. Then came the storm of applause, which lasted for
several minutes. I turned towards Isobel. She was sitting very still,
and she did not join in the enthusiasm which seemed to find its way
straight from the hearts of the men and women who sat about us. But her
eyes were wet with tears, her lips a little parted. She gazed at the man
whom incessant calls had brought at last a little wearily before the
curtain, as one might look at a god. And their eyes met. He did not
start or betray himself in any way--perhaps his training befriended him
there, but as he left the stage he staggered, and I saw his hand go to
clutch the curtain for support. I knew then that, before the night was
over, Isobel's history would no longer be a secret to us.

She turned to me with a little smile of apology. There was a new look in
her face too. She spoke gravely.

"Was I very stupid? I am sorry, but I could not help it. I have never
seen anything like this before. It is wonderful!"

We talked quietly of the play, and I was astonished at the keenness of
her perceptions, the unerring ease with which she had realized and
appreciated the self-abnegation which was the great underlying _motif_
of the whole drama. And in the midst of our conversation, what I had
expected happened. A note was brought to me by an attendant.

"Come to me after the next act, and bring her. An attendant will be
waiting for you at your left-hand door of egress."

Mabane and Arthur had gone out to have a smoke. I had still a moment
before the curtain went up. I leaned over towards Isobel.

"Isobel," I said, "I am going to tell you something which will surprise
you very much. It is necessary that I tell you at once. If you answer me
at all do not speak above a whisper."

She only slightly moved her head. I had not any fear of her betraying
herself.

"You have seen Feurgéres before. It was in the _café_. He was my
companion when I saw you first."

"Mr. Grooten!" she murmured, so softly that her lips seemed scarcely to
move.

I nodded assent.

"You knew?"

"Not until to-night."

She was very pale, but her self-control was complete.

"He wishes us--you and I--to go round to his room after this act. You
will be prepared?"

"Of course," she answered simply.

Mabane and Arthur came back, and the latter whispered several times in
her ear. I doubt, however, whether she heard anything. She sat through
the whole of the next act like one in a dream, only her eyes never left
the stage--never left, indeed, the figure of the man from whom all the
greatness of the play seemed to flow. As the curtain fell I leaned over
to Arthur.

"Isobel and I are going to pay a visit," I said. "We shall be back in
time for the next act."

"A visit!" he repeated doubtfully. "Is there anyone we know here, then?"

"Allan will explain," I answered. "You had better tell him," I whispered
to Mabane.

Allan was looking very serious. I think that he questioned the wisdom of
what I was doing.

"You are going to see him?" he asked, in a low tone.

"He has sent for us," I answered.

We found the attendant waiting, and by a devious route along many
passages and through many doors we reached our destination at last. Our
guide knocked at a door on which was hanging a little board with the
name of "Monsieur Feurgéres" painted across it. Almost immediately we
were bidden to enter. Monsieur Feurgéres was sitting with his back to us
before a long dressing-table. He turned at once to the servant who stood
by his side.

"Come back five minutes before my call," he ordered. "That will be in
about twenty minutes from now."

The man bowed and silently withdrew. Not until he had left the room did
Feurgéres move from his place. Then he arose to his feet and held out
his hands to Isobel.

"I knew your mother, Isobel!" he said simply.

CHAPTER X

Isobel never hesitated. I think that instinctively she accepted him
without demur. Her eyes flashed back to him all those nameless things
which his own greeting had left unspoken. She took his hands, and looked
him frankly in the face.

"All my life," she said softly, "I have wanted to meet someone who could
say that to me."

He was dressed in a suit of mediæval court clothes, black from head to
foot, and fashioned according to the period of the play in which he was
acting. But if he had worn the garments of a pierrot or a clown, one
would never have noticed it. The man's individuality, magnetic and
irresistible, triumphed easily. Mr. Grooten had passed away. It was the
great Feurgéres, whose sad shining eyes lingered so wistfully upon
Isobel's face.

"I can say more than that," he went on. "And now that I see you, Isobel,
I wonder that I have not said it long ago. You are like her, child--very
like her!"

"I am glad," Isobel murmured. "Please tell me--everything!"

"Everything--for me--is soon told," he answered, his voice dropping
almost to a whisper, his eyes still fixed upon Isobel's, yet looking her
through as though she were a shadow. "I loved your mother. I was the
man--whom your mother loved! The years of my life began and ended
there."

Their hands had fallen apart a little while before, but Isobel, with an
impulsive gesture, stooped down and raised the fingers of his left hand
to her lips. I turned away. It seemed like sacrilege to watch a man's
soul shining in his eyes. I walked to the other end of the long narrow
room, and examined the swords which lay ready for use against the wall.
It was not many minutes, however, before Feurgéres recalled me.

"To-night," he said, "I was coming to see Mr. Greatson."

"It is better," she murmured, "to have met you like this."

He smiled very slightly, yet it seemed to me that the curve of his lips
was almost a caress. There was certainly nothing left now of Mr.
Grooten.

"I think that I, too, am glad," he said. "Your mother suffered all her
life because she permitted herself to care for me. We mummers, you see,
Isobel, though the world loves to be amused, are always a little outside
the pale. I think," he added, with a curious little note of bitterness
in his tone, "that we are not reckoned worthy or capable of the domestic
affections."

"You do not believe--you cannot believe," she murmured, "that there are
many people who are so foolish! It is the dwellers in the world who are
mummers--those who live their foolish, orderly lives with their eyes
closed, and oppressed all the while with a nervous fear of what their
neighbours are thinking of them. Those are the mummers--but you--you,
Monsieur, are Feurgéres--the artist! You make music on the heartstrings
of the world!"

For myself I was astonished. I had not often seen Isobel so deeply
moved. I had never known her so ready, so earnest of speech. But
Feurgéres was almost agitated. For the first time I saw him without the
mask of his perfect self-control. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were
soft as a woman's. He raised Isobel's hand to his lips, and his voice,
when he spoke, shook with real emotion.

"You are the daughter of your mother, dear Isobel," he said. "Beyond
that, what is there that I can say--I, who loved her!"

"You can tell me about her," Isobel said gently. "That is what I have
been hoping for!"

"A little, a very little," he answered, "and more to-night, if you will.
I have already written to Mr. Greatson, and I meant in a few hours to
tell him everything. But I would have you know this, Isobel, and
remember it always. Your mother was a holy woman. For my sake, for the
sake of the love she bore me, she abandoned a great position. She broke
down all the barriers of race, and all the conventions of a lifetime.
She lost every friend she had in the world; she even, perhaps, in some
measure, neglected her duty to you. Yet you were seldom out of her
thoughts, and her last words committed you to my distant care. I have,
perhaps, ill-fulfilled her charge, Isobel. Yet I have been watching over
you sometimes when you have not known it."

"You were my saviour once," she said, "you and Arnold here, when I
sorely needed help."

"I came from America at a moment's notice," he said, "when it seemed to
me that you might need my help. I broke the greatest contract I had ever
signed, and I placed my liberty, if not my life, at the mercy of your
wonderful police system. But those things count for little. I have been
forced, Isobel, to leave you very much to yourself. You come of a race
who would regard any association with me as defilement. And there is
always the chance that you may be able to take your proper position in
the world. That is why it has been my duty to keep away from you, why I
have been forced to leave to others what I would gladly have done
myself. To-night you will understand everything."

"Nothing that you can tell me of my family or myself," she answered,
"will ever make me forget that, whereas of them I know nothing, you have
been my guardian angel. It was you who rescued me from the one person in
this world of whom I have been miserably, hatefully afraid. It was not
my family who saved me. It was you!"

A shrill bell was ringing outside. We heard the commotion of hurrying
footsteps, the call-boy's summons, the creaking of moving scenery.
Feurgéres glanced at the watch which stood upon his table. His manner
seemed to undergo a sudden change. The man no longer revealed himself.

"The curtain is going up," he said. "I can stay with you but two minutes
longer. I am coming to see Mr. Greatson to-night, Isobel, after the
performance, and I wish to see him alone. This is at once our meeting
and our farewell."

"Our farewell!" she repeated doubtfully. "Surely you are not going to
leave us--so soon! You cannot mean that?"

"To-morrow," he said, "I leave for St. Petersburg. My engagement there
has been made many months ago. But even if it were not so, dear child,
our ways through life must always lie far apart. If the necessity for it
had not existed, I should not have left you to the care of--of even Mr.
Greatson. To be your guardian, Isobel, would not be seemly. That you
will better understand--to-morrow."

"Indeed!" she protested, "I would sooner hear it now from your own
lips--if, indeed, it must be so!"

He shook his head very slowly, but with a decision more finite than the
most emphatic negation which words could have framed.

"I must go away, Isobel," he said, "and you and I must remain apart. I
will only ask you to remember me by this. I am the man your mother
loved. Nothing else in my life is worth considering--but that. I am one
of those with whom fate has dealt a little hardly. I am as weary of my
work as I am of life itself. I go on because it was her wish. But I
cannot forget. The past remains--a blazing page of light. The present is
a very empty and a very cold place. My days here are a sort of
aftermath. My life ended with hers. To-night, for one moment--I want you
to take her place."

Isobel looked at him eagerly.

"Tell me how," she begged. "Tell me what to do!"

"It may sound very foolish," he said, with a faint smile, "but I have a
fancy, and I am sure that you will do as I ask. I want you to sit where
she sat night after night. You will find some flowers in her chair. Keep
them. They were the ones she preferred."

There was an imperative knocking at the door. Feurgéres caught up his
plumed hat and sword.

"I am ready," he said quietly. "Mr. Greatson, my servant will take you
to the box, which I beg that you and Isobel will occupy for the rest of
the evening. It is a harmless whim of mine, and I trust that it will not
inconvenience you."

With scarcely another word he left us, and a moment later we heard the
roar of applause which greeted his appearance on the stage. Isobel's
eyes kindled, and she moved restlessly towards the door.

"I do hope," she said, "that someone will come for us soon. I want to
hear every word. I hate to miss any of it."

The dark-visaged servant stood upon the threshold.

"I have orders from Monsieur Feurgéres," he announced respectfully, "to
conduct you to his box. If Mademoiselle will permit!"

We followed him on tiptoe to the front of the house. He unlocked the
door of the left-hand stage box with a key which he took from his
pocket.

"Monsieur will permit me to remark," he whispered, "that this is the
first time since I have been in the service of Monsieur Feurgéres that
anyone has occupied his private box. I trust that Mademoiselle will be
comfortable."

Then the door closed behind him, and we were left to ourselves.

CHAPTER XI

Isobel, her chair drawn a little behind the curtain, was almost
invisible from the house. With both hands she held the cluster of pink
roses which she had found upon the seat. Gravely, but with wonderful
self-composure, she followed the action of the play with an intentness
which never faltered. Occasionally she leaned a little forward, and at
such moments her profile passed the droop of the curtain, and was
visible to the greater part of the audience. It was immediately after
one of such movements that I noticed some commotion amongst the
occupants of the box opposite to us. Their attention seemed suddenly
drawn towards Isobel--two sets of opera-glasses were steadily levelled
at her. A woman, whose neck and arms were ablaze with diamonds, raised
her lorgnettes, and, regardless of the progress of the play, kept them
fixed in our direction. I changed my position to obtain a better view of
these people, and immediately I understood.

I saw the house now for the first time, and I saw something which
pleased me very little. We were immediately opposite the Royal box,
which, with the one adjoining, was occupied by a very brilliant little
party. The Archduchess was there. It was she whose lorgnettes were still
unfalteringly directed towards Isobel. Lady Delahaye sat in the
background, and a greater personage than either occupied the chair next
to the Archduchess. Soon I saw that they were all whispering together,
all still looking from Isobel towards the stage, and from the stage to
Isobel; and in the background was a man whose coat was covered with
orders, and who held himself like a soldier. He looked at Isobel as one
might look at a ghost. I stood back almost hidden in the shadows, and I
wondered more than ever what the end of all these things might be.

Towards the close of the act that wonderful voice, with its low burden
of sorrow so marvellously controlled, drew me against my will to the
front of the box. He stood there with outstretched arms, the prototype
of all pathos, and the low words, drawn as it were against his will from
his tremulous lips, kept the whole house breathless. His arms dropped to
his side, the curtain commenced to fall. In that moment his eyes,
suddenly uplifted, met mine. It seemed to me that they were charged with
meaning, and I read their message rightly. After all, though, I am not
sure that I needed any warning.

The curtain fell. There was twenty minutes' interval. Isobel sat back in
her chair, and her hand lingered lovingly about the roses which lay upon
her lap. I did not speak to her. I knew that she was living in a little
world of her own, into which any ordinary intrusion was almost
sacrilege. Arthur and Allan had left their places. I judged rightly that
they had gone home. So I sat by myself, and waited for what I knew was
sure to happen.

And presently it came--the knock at the box door for which I had been
listening. I rose and opened it. A tall young Englishman, with smooth
parted hair, whose evening attire was so immaculate as to become almost
an offence, stood and stared at me through his eyeglass.

"Mr. Greatson!" he suggested. "Mr. Arnold Greatson?"

I acknowledged the fact with becoming meekness.

"My name is Milton," he said--"Captain Angus Milton. I am in the suite
of the Archduchess for this evening. Her Highness occupies the box
opposite to yours."

I bowed.

"I have noticed the fact," I answered. "The Archduchess has been good
enough to favour us with some attention."

The young man stared at me for some moments. I found myself able to
endure his scrutiny.

"Her Highness desires that you and the young lady"--for the first time
he bowed towards Isobel--"will be so good as to come to the anteroom of
the Royal box. She is anxious for a few minutes' conversation with you."

"The Archduchess," I answered, "does us too much honour! I shall be
glad, however, if you will inform her that we will take another
opportunity of waiting upon her. Miss de Sorrens is much interested in
the play."

The young man dropped his eyeglass. I was proud of the fact that I had
succeeded in surprising him.

"You mean," he exclaimed softly, "that you won't--that you don't want to
come?"

"Precisely," I answered. "I have already had the honour of one interview
with the Archduchess, and I imagine that no useful purpose would be
served by re-opening the subject of our discussion!"

"The young lady, then?" he remarked, turning again to Isobel.

"The young lady remains under my charge," I answered. "You will be so
good as to express my regrets to the Archduchess."

He hesitated for a moment, and then, with a slight bow to Isobel, left
us. She spoke to me, and we had been so long silent that our voices
sounded strange.

"Thank you, Arnold," she said quietly. "This is all so wonderful that I
could not bear to have it disturbed."

"I pray that it may not be," I answered. "The Archduchess's interest is
flattering, but mysterious. I for one do not trust her. I wish----"

I broke off in my speech, for I saw that the principal seat in the
opposite box was vacant. As for Isobel, I doubt whether she noticed my
sudden pause. Her hands were still caressing the soft pink blossoms in
her lap, her eyes were fixed upon vacancy. She was in a sort of dream,
from which I did not care to rouse her. I knew very well that the
awakening would come fast enough.

Another imperative tap upon the door. I opened it, and the Archduchess
swept past me. In the darkness of our box her diamonds glittered like
fire, the perfume from her draperies was stronger by far than the
delicate fragrance of the roses which Isobel still held. Me she ignored
altogether. She went straight up to Isobel, and, stooping down, rested
her gloved hand upon the girl's shoulder.

"I sent for you just now," she said. "Did you not understand?"

Isobel raised her eyebrows. The Archduchess was angry, and her voice
betrayed her.

"I do not know any reason," Isobel answered, "why I should do your
bidding."

[Illustration: "I do not know any reason" Isobel answered, "why I should
do your bidding."]

The Archduchess was silent for a moment. I think that she was waiting
until she could control her voice.

"Isobel," she said, "I will tell you a very good reason. I cannot keep
silence any longer. They will not give you up to me any other way, so I
have come to claim you openly. You shall know the truth. I am your
mother's sister!"

Isobel rose slowly to her feet. She was as tall as the Archduchess, and
the likeness which had always haunted me was unmistakable. Only Isobel
was of the finer mould, and her eyes were different.

"Why did you not tell me this before--at the Mordaunt Rooms, for
instance?" she asked.

"You came upon me like a thunderclap," the Archduchess answered quickly.
"For years we had lost all trace of you. Besides, there were
reasons--you know that there were reasons why I might surely have been
forgiven for hesitating. But let that go. We had better have your story
blazoned out once more to the world than that you should live your life
in this hole-and-corner fashion. I shall take you back to Waldenburg. I
presume, sir!" she added, turning suddenly towards me, "that even you
will not question my right to assume the guardianship of my own niece?"

The memory of Feurgéres' look came to my aid, or I scarcely know how I
should have answered her.

"Your Highness," I said, "it is for Isobel to decide. She is no longer a
child. Only I would remind you that you have on more than one occasion
endeavoured to assume that guardianship without mentioning any such
relationship."

"You know Isobel's history," the Archduchess answered. "Can you wonder
that I was anxious to avoid all publicity?"

"Your Highness," I said, "we do not know Isobel's history--yet. We shall
hear it to-night."

"He has not told you--yet?" she asked incredulously.

"He is coming to my rooms to-night," I answered.

"You shall hear it before then," she exclaimed, with a little laugh.
"Put on your hat, child. We will drive to my house, you and I and Mr.
Greatson, and I will tell you everything. You will know then how greatly
that man insulted you by daring to allow you to occupy this box, to
approach you at all."

"Madame," Isobel said, "I thank you, but I wish to hear the end of the
play. And as for my history, Monsieur Feurgéres has promised to tell it
to Mr. Greatson to-night."

I saw the Archduchess's teeth meet, and a spot of colour that burned in
her cheeks.

"You talk like a fool, child," she said fiercely. "You are being