Mabel's cross-examination at the hands of Aunt Caroline was conveniently interrupted by the arrival of a very early visitor. The old lady, who was sitting opposite a window looking across the broad acres of the Palace park, saw a horsewoman riding through the chestnut trees in the direction of the house.

It was Beatrice Carew, who for the last two years had been accustomed to call in unconventional fashion upon Lady Hester whenever the mood seized her.

"Ah, Beatrice!" murmured the old lady, "the very person I wanted to see." And she left the room without apology to greet the new arrival in the hall.

Now Beatrice had been Mabel's friend; perhaps her dearest and best. They met four years previously at an Italian convent school, and struck up an intimate acquaintance, which was renewed after Beatrice left and Mabel had finally settled in her native country. It was to see Mabel that Beatrice had come over to the Palace to-day, rising with the lark, as was her way, and riding unattended across country from her father's house at an hour when most people were thinking of going down to breakfast. In the ordinary way Mabel would have run out to greet her friend; but since the eavesdropping in the Temple, and Aunt Caroline's frank observations concerning Jack's future, she felt a little constrained. She was glad enough to be relieved of the old lady, and was in no mood to greet her once dear friend.

It was only natural that the girls were not quite so devoted since Jack had fallen in love with Mabel. Lady Hester had discreetly refrained from inviting Beatrice to the celebrations over night; but the girl had heard of the official engagement, and had bravely come to offer her congratulations.

She rode straight into the stable yard without ceremony, and flung the reins of her horse to the nearest man. Then, with a bound, she dismounted, curtly remarking that she would not be long.

The Marquis of Ripley's daughter was a big-boned girl of a very modern type, athletic, brusque, and offhanded to the verge of rudeness. The only daughter in a large family of boys, she had grown masculine in her ways. She was a very downright person, and boasted openly that she had not an ounce of romance in her disposition. She was independent to a fault, and almost intolerant of small acts of chivalry and courtesy on the part of men. This had earned her a reputation for angularity and snappishness. But everything she did was done seriously and with all her might. She had no sympathy with simpering, fainting, hysterical girls of her own age, and the surest way for a man to provoke a snub was to profess admiration of her in complimentary terms.

"She ought to have been a boy," was the verdict of the women who knew Beatrice Carew. All were slightly apologetic for her; and nobody more fiercely resented being championed than she.

This independence of character provoked great respect for the girl in many quarters. Miss Cardew admired her. "There was no nonsense about Beatrice;" and it was the greatest praise the old lady could give any girl. It summed up everything from her point of view. She objected to the ultra-sentimental, the ultra-religious, or the ultra-frivolous young woman, and had settled in her mind long ago that Beatrice was the ideal mate for Jack, because that young man showed excitable, emotional tendencies, and required--from her point of view--keeping in check. And what better way to steady an impressionable, romantically-inclined young man, whose vocation needed the soundest of common sense, than to marry him to a clear-headed, practical girl.

Beatrice was not beautiful; yet none but an enemy would have called her plain. She was just healthy and normal. Her mouth was not too large, her eyes were not too small, her nose was of quite a common shape, and her hands were strong enough to master the toughest mounts in her father's stable. She hunted, of course, as a lady should; but she never rode a bicycle, and this was a point in her favor with Aunt Caroline. Her feet were not small; but then she could do twenty miles on foot level with Jack any day; and her boots were always designed for walking, not for coquettish exhibition.

Her habit was a loose-fitting one, and her whip was old and shabby. Her gloves were large, and had seen a good deal of wear. She was not untidy; but there was nothing unusually trim and smart about her. She wandered towards the house flicking her skirt with her whip and staring at anything that caught her eye with the free and easy manner of one quite at home, and in no hurry.

Aunt Caroline met her at the top of the steps.

"Good morning, aunt," she observed curtly. This was a familiar term to which she had grown accustomed from much association with Jack.

"Good morning, my dear Beatrice. I am very pleased to see you. We must have a talk together."

"Mabel here?" asked Beatrice laconically.

"You mean Miss Bannister, I presume?" This with a sniff.

"Well, her name is Mabel, isn't it? You ought to know it by this time. Hear she's going to be one of the family. Looks like rain, doesn't it?" Beatrice turned and stared straight down the chestnut avenue, as though quite unconcerned.

"I think it rather rests with you, Beatrice, whether she becomes one of the family or not."

"Eh? Rests with me? What rot!"

Aunt Caroline was not offended. She objected to all such expressions in women--except from Beatrice.

"Come in, my child. I want to talk to you. We have much to say to each other."

"Oh no, I won't come in. I was just riding across--heard Mabel was here--thought I'd look in. Had breakfast yet?"

"We have just finished--only just."

"What, all of you?"

"No, Jack has gone to town, my brother is off somewhere, as usual, and Hester is not well."

"Oh, then, I'll come in. Where's Mabel?"

"This way, my dear," murmured the old lady coaxingly, opening the door of the library and beckoning her in mysteriously. Beatrice cast a lightning glance around the hall and took in everything. She saw Jack's cap and stick lying on a table, and she seemed to be swallowing a lump in her throat. Her voice was cold and quite bored when next she spoke.

"Not in the mood for talk this morning, aunt."

"Beatrice, my dear, you've heard the awful news?" whispered Aunt Caroline tragically, as she closed the door.

"About Jack's engagement? Oh yes, everybody knows of it by this time, I suppose. Why didn't they invite me last night?"

"I do not issue the invitations from this house, Beatrice."

"Mabel's a friend of mine. It was I who introduced her here. She might have thought about me when the cards were going out."

"Mabel, as you call her, had nothing to do with it. Miss Bannister has no standing in this house--thank God!--at present."

"You don't like her?"

"You are very blunt in your observations, Beatrice."

"Always am. Find it easiest--saves time. What's the matter with Mabel? Nice enough, sweet enough, and pretty enough for anybody. Jack has found that out."

"Ah! if he had only been a little less blind!"

"Blind? He seems to have been pretty wide awake."

"Do you mean that he deceived you, Beatrice?"

"Deceived me?" cried the girl, flashing out. "How dare you say such a thing. What has he got to deceive me about?"

"Beatrice, Beatrice, you know what my intentions were with regard to you and Jack."

"Goodness gracious, you don't mean to say you are still harping on that old idea? Jack's engaged. How could you have imagined that Jack would ever give a thought to me? I told you so before. You made me very angry then, and you make me angry now. It requires two for that sort of thing, and it was never in my line. Go too much to do. Never thought much of Jack--except as a good pal."

"Pal! My child, what horrid terms you use. You have known one another for years. You have been the most intimate friends. Jack has told you all his troubles, and you are the only girl he ever really consistently devoted himself to."

"Because he didn't love me. That was it. Always knew it. And never could have loved Jack myself. I should have bullied him." Her fingers tightened on her whip. She was ready to lie or make any foolish assertion rather than admit that Beatrice Carew showed preference for any man or felt disappointed on hearing of the engagement of another woman. "Jack has loved half-a-dozen girls," sneered Beatrice, "and Mabel is the last. I was never one of them, and don't you ever insinuate that I was. If you do, I'll--I'll never forgive you. I've come over to offer my congratulations to Mabel. If you allow her to think that--good heavens!--Jack and I? Preposterous! I'd never set foot in the place again or hold up my head before my friends. She's more to me than any girl I've ever known, and I intend she shall be happy with Jack. She's just one of those soft, mousey sort of girls that he loves, but she's true as steel. She's going to have money, too, I hear. News to me. Always thought they were poor. So much the better for Jack. And you told me that when he married you were going to allow him a really handsome income. That will be splendid for them."

"Never!" cried Aunt Caroline, crossing her arms and nursing her elbows, and drawing herself up stiffly in her high-backed chair.

"You can't go back on your word, and Jack must have money. You promised me."

"Yes, I promised you. If you married Jack----"

"There you go again--for goodness' sake stop! There was never any idea of that except in your imagination, Miss Cardew. I wouldn't marry Jack for all the gold in the Indies. He's not my sort--too much talk. But talk is his profession now, and a poor one. It's mean if you cry off and let him be dependent upon his wife for income. That's what it'll mean. It's horrible."

Caroline frowned and scrutinized the girl keenly. The mask of indifference fitted so well that even the keen old lady failed to penetrate it. There were no symptoms of the broken heart, and the girl's sharp, practical appreciation of a situation puzzling for older heads rather disconcerted her.

"Jack's money affairs are his father's and my business, Beatrice."

"Not Jack's then?" sneered Beatrice impertinently.

"It is not parsimony on my part, or greed of wealth. It is disapproval of the girl herself that tightens my purse strings. He will never marry her, Beatrice. Mark my words. This engagement is nothing. Her father is nothing. He has nothing. He's a scamp."

"You seem to know him pretty well," observed Beatrice, with growing interest. "Mabel didn't give me that impression."

"The child is a fool--at least, I thought she was. I am now inclined to believe that she's perfectly well aware that her father is a humbug."

Beatrice puckered her brows and was thoughtful, and looked out of the window. Miss Cardew did not speak like this, as a rule, without chapter and verse.

"Never liked him myself," she observed. "Not the sort of man to appeal to you or me, aunt. Too much perfume--finnicking in his habits--never rides if he can help it--always ready for cards first thing after breakfast. But women rave about him."

"Because most women are fools, Beatrice."

"Oh! Never noticed it."

"Beatrice, your snappy, laconic way of contradicting me is not polite for a girl of your age."

"Who's contradicting?" cried Beatrice, looking almost startled, and relinquishing the languid posture into which she had dropped.

"You are. You are extremely curt, not to say impertinent in manner. I know you don't really mean it, or I could not overlook it. I'm fond of you; I'm working for your benefit, for your happiness, you know that. You've got to marry Jack; you want to marry him; you're in love with him, you know you are."

"I'm not. How dare you! Say that again----" Beatrice jumped up, and twisted her tapering whip in both hands threatening. "Say that again, and I'll--I'll break something." She gazed savagely at two old-fashioned, hideous, but precious, Dresden shepherdesses on the mantel-shelf. "I won't have you say it. It isn't true. I--I hate him. I won't stay in this house. Do you think I come here for--for Jack?"

"It is only the accident of his going to town that has prevented your seeing him this morning, my dear. And I don't think you came to see either me or Mabel."

"How dare you! How can you insult me by such insinuations! Jack may have to put up with your absurd ideas, but I won't."

Aunt Caroline smiled provokingly, for Beatrice was as near to tears as any one had ever seen her. She was grinding her teeth, and twisting her whip savagely. Her eyes blazed and roamed round in search of something fragile to sweep to the floor.

The passionate outburst was checked by the opening of the door. Mabel entered, pale and astonished, and almost withdrew at the sight of Aunt Caroline. But, seeing Beatrice, her careworn eyes lighted up and she advanced eagerly.

"Beatrice," she cried, with tremulous joy, and opened her arms. The two girls embraced, and Beatrice hugged her friend with genuine fervor while Aunt Caroline looked on astonished. No one had ever seen Beatrice Carew hug any one before--or even kiss a woman if she could possibly avoid it.

"You're looking pale, Mabel," cried the visitor, holding her friend at arm's length, and controlling herself with difficulty. Mabel wished Miss Cardew at the other end of the earth, and so did Beatrice. The faint cloud that had risen between the friends had melted in the warmth of that simple embrace. They understood one another; and an understanding was possible now that Mabel's engagement was a fixed and settled thing. Beatrice scorned jealousy as a disease of brainless femininity; and Mabel was in sore need of a friend.

Miss Cardew withdrew to a window, where she stood with folded arms, gazing sternly at the landscape. She was evidently not going away, yet disdained to notice the existence of Mabel Bannister.

"You'd better go, aunt. We've got lots to talk about," cried Beatrice rudely. Mabel gasped, and Aunt Caroline flushed with annoyance. Only Beatrice dared "cheek" the old lady like this. Not even the Bishop could chaff her as Beatrice did.

"Well, if you don't go we must," she continued, with a laugh. "We can't go out into the garden because it is coming on to rain, and no one is likely to disturb us here."

"If my presence is an offence----"

"It isn't, aunt, you know that very well. It's only superfluous and embarrassing." Then, turning to Mabel, "You'll soon learn how to treat Aunt Caroline, Mabel--she's the best-hearted soul in the world, the dearest old thing, if you don't take her seriously. Her bite isn't half as bad as her bark. Everybody's afraid of her but me--I'm not--and when she's rude to me I'm rude to her. Then we have a flare up, and it clears the air. And she simply loves Jack better than a Christian woman should love anything in this wicked world."

Aunt Caroline snorted and tried to speak. Anger shook her from head to foot. This was mortification indeed before the upstart child, Mabel.

"It's no good, aunt," cried Beatrice, checking the outburst with upraised arm. "I'm not going to quarrel. I'm an angel this morning. Everything will come all right presently, you silly old, dear thing." Beatrice, with a laugh, suddenly flung her arms round the old lady's neck and kissed her on the cheek.

Poor Aunt Caroline was utterly unnerved. The act was as surprising as it was rare; and she had learned by experience that it was useless to attempt to argue with Beatrice when her deeper feelings were aroused. The girl was playing a part--she was scarcely master of herself. This show of impudence and rudeness was only her way of hiding the rents in a broken heart, and giving vent to feminine feelings that would have best been relieved by a flood of tears.

The old lady stalked from the room.

"So you are going to marry Jack?"

Beatrice put her hands upon her friend's shoulders, and looked her straight in the eyes. Mabel was weary of the talk of "going to marry," and she would have liked to scream out, "I am married," but prudence forbade. She was longing for a confidante; but a half-confession would be no good; and how could she explain her suspicions of her father to Beatrice, who was fond of Jack? Her friend searched her face keenly, and saw the lines of care, the evasive glance with a touch of panic in it, and the many signs of general suffering too subtle to be particularized.

"Have they been worrying you? You mustn't mind Aunt Caroline. She's just jealous of Jack, and will find fault with any one who comes between her and her boy."

"No, it isn't that."

"Then why unhappy when everything is coming your way? The old boy is agreeable; Lady Hester delighted, of course; and Jack in the seventh heaven of delight. Saw him when he came down here the other day--he didn't see me. He was walking about as though he owned the earth and had a reversionary interest in something beyond it. Aunt Caroline seems to object to your father."

A look of terror swept over Mabel's face. "Yes, she evidently doesn't like him. He plays cards too much for her, I suppose. You see, she is very strict in her notions."

"Fiddlesticks! She's not strict at all. I've played cards with her on a Sunday. No, there's something else behind, Mabel. What is it? Can't you trust me?"

"I can't trust anybody," cried the girl, suddenly collapsing into a chair and wringing her hands. "Sometimes I wish--I wish that you and Jack----"

"Oh, Aunt Caroline has been talking about me and Jack, has she? An old woman's delusions. You've been quarrelling with Jack, that's what's the matter."

"No, I haven't. I'm in a dreadful predicament, and no one can help me. I've ruined Jack."

"That's a tall order. You're not worrying about Aunt Caroline's money, surely. I'll make her life a burden to her if she doesn't shell out."

"It isn't money--it isn't Jack--it is myself. Oh, don't ask me any more, or you'll tempt me to say things I shall regret."

Beatrice frowned and looked more puzzled than ever.

"What have you been doing, Mabel?"

"I--oh, nothing."

Lady Hester, white and ill, entered the library at the moment, and interrupted the inevitable confession. Beatrice would have drawn her friend's secret from her little by little by the mere exercise of sympathy; but it was not to be.

Beatrice greeted the mistress of the house with her usual laconic abruptness, and explained that she had come over to offer her congratulations to Mabel on her approaching marriage. The word marriage came out with difficulty, for Lady Hester must have known the state of Beatrice's feelings, and it was hard to assume indifference before one naturally so sympathetic.

"Yes, everything is settled," murmured Lady Hester, going to the table and searching for a newspaper.

"Forgot me in your dinner party last night, didn't you?" observed Beatrice curtly.

"So I did! Good heavens! how absurd of me. I put your name down, I'm sure. Didn't I send you a card?"

"No. When's the wedding?"

"Well, we have hardly got as far as that," replied Lady Hester, with a wan smile and a glance at Mabel, whose eyes were full of fear. "Mr. Bannister has come down to stay with us for a little while."

"Yes; I saw his motor waiting in the stable yard just now. Are you going out in it?" Beatrice glanced at the folded mackintosh which Lady Hester had flung over the back of a chair.

"Oh, no, I hate motors. It is raining, and I've been seedy. I thought a little walk in the grounds would do me good."

"Good idea. Let's all go," suggested Beatrice. "Mabel, get yourself a 'tosh. I simply love a walk in the rain."

"No, no, you girls must stay here. You've got lots to say to one another."

"Oh, no, indeed," protested Mabel, "but I've got some letters to write. If you and Beatrice feel like walking in the rain, I'm sure I don't. I think I'll write my letters upstairs."

She moved nervously towards the door, and Lady Hester's eyes followed her with a strange, yearning look that was not lost upon Beatrice. She knew that her hostess was very fond of Mabel, as an elder woman can be fond of a younger, and patronize her, and give her a good time in a big house which is always full of guests, but she was at a loss to understand the almost hungry admiration with which she followed every step, every movement of the girl. The troubled mother held out her hand to touch her as she passed--then recovered with an effort, and crushed down the impulse, so new, and strange, and weakening.

Mabel escaped. It seemed to be her vocation now to dodge through life, to evade questions and looks, and watch and wait for the next move in the tragic game of sins and secrets. She was afraid to be away long from the upper corridor, where her father's room was. From the open door of her bedroom she had kept a sharp watch upon Voss; but nothing that was not quite normal had happened.

Lady Hester, left in the library, was at her wits' end to know how to get rid of Beatrice. She watched the clock anxiously, for she had an appointment with her husband, Dick Gordon, and was terrified at the thought of disappointing him, or provoking him, by the slightest display of indifference or independence. The night's agony had shown her that she was utterly at his mercy, and must dance to his tune, no matter what it was. She was burning to know his real attitude of mind. One minute's conversation would be enough to set at rest the horrible doubts and sickening misgivings that were shaking her like an ague and numbing body and brain.

"There's something going wrong here," was Beatrice's unspoken comment of the situation. Her sharp eyes watched Lady Hester; and she could read the signs of wretchedness as quickly as any woman.

The rain came down faster, and the idea of walking in it for amusement, even under the trees, was absurd. Lady Hester dropped into an arm chair with a newspaper, and carried on a desultory conversation so aimlessly that Beatrice almost took offence. It was tantamount to a request to go. She was obviously in the way.

"I see it is raining too fast for you, Lady Hester," she observed, going towards the window. "But it won't hurt me. I love a ducking. That's the best of being thick-skinned. Oh, there goes somebody who doesn't mind the rain, evidently. Why, it's Mr. Bannister."

"He is going motoring, and motorists don't take any notice of the rain."

But Mr. Bannister was not going in the direction of his motor, and in the ordinary way it would have been brought to the front door. He was in a long white mackintosh and cap, and was striding down the chestnut avenue, smoking a cigar.

"Well, good-bye, Lady Hester. I'll come over again to see Mabel before she goes back. And I must pay my respects to the adorable Bannister. Expects everybody to fall down and worship him, doesn't he? That's the worst of being an Adonis. Not my sort. You like him?"

"I detest--I detest men of that kind as a rule, but he seems a very agreeable person."

"Surprised at 'Rippey' taking to him." "Rippey" was the pet name of the Bishop, which Beatrice never scrupled to use before his wife. "He's rather a dog, isn't he?"

"I'm sure I don't understand your allusions," replied Lady Hester haughtily. The girl's levity grated.

"Evidently made an impression on you. I mustn't say anything. Well, so long! My mare is in the yard, and I'll have to get wet."

"I sincerely hope I'm not driving you away. Let me ring and have your horse brought round," murmured Lady Hester. "I know I'm very stupid this morning. It is my head."

"Want me to clear. I understand. Shouldn't come here if you didn't give me the straight tip when you wanted me to go. But as a rule you're more frank about it."

"You really mustn't go in the wet, Beatrice. I have many things to do this morning----"

"And you want me to go. Good-bye!"

Beatrice kissed her hand in good humor and strode out of the room, slamming the door after her like a man. Lady Hester at once became feverishly active. She slipped on her mackintosh and drew the cape over her head. Then softly and guiltily she slipped out of the house by the front door, the nearest way to the avenue and the quickest for getting out of sight. The sun broke through and the rain stopped. She took a different path to the one chosen by the man in the motoring coat, but did not go far. She turned down a side path and through an opening in the hedge to a portion of the kitchen garden which had once been a favorite resort of the inmates of the house in the old days. Here a Grecian arbor, supported by two white columns falling to decay, ivy-grown and neglected, provided shelter for Mr. Bannister. A yew hedge made a screen, and it was quite the most secluded spot in the grounds.

He was already there, watching the rain and smoking. As Lady Hester came through the opening in the hedge he flung his cigar away, and stepped forth to greet her.

"Ah, my dear Hester--my dear Lady Hester, I should say--you have chosen a quiet spot indeed, a lost corner of the world. I can smell the mildew of past ages in this spiders' paradise. Why didn't you come with me in the motor? Ah, it is quite like old times--a clandestine meeting while the old people doze after meals. Don't sit there, it is dirty."

She had taken his proffered hand as if mesmerized. His voice subdued her and rang like forgotten music in her ears. She was faint and could not stand. He dusted the old, rickety seat with his handkerchief, and led her to the most convenient resting place. But she shook him off.

"Don't touch me. I haven't much time. I want to know what you intend to do?"

"Do, my dear Hester? What would you have me do? This delightful encounter after the lapse of years was unfortunate, coming when it did. I for one do not regret it, although I admit that it makes me feel a fraud and a humbug. You thought I was dead."

"Of course, I did," she moaned. "Why didn't you die? Why have you come back to torture me and ruin me? You wrecked my life once. You mean to wreck it again."

"Tut-tut, Hester, you do me an injustice. I've come down here to marry my girl to your husband's son, and the long arm of coincidence has been reaching out rather far, that is all. The world is a very small place, after all."

"What do you mean to do--what do you mean to do?" she cried hoarsely, drumming her clenched hands upon her knees.

"There is nothing for me to do. Rather ask me what I feel."

"But we must come to some decision at once. I cannot go on like this in misery and terror. I am living with a man who is not my husband."

"But he is your husband, my dear Hester."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Dick Gordon died years ago. Mr. Richard Bannister has no connection with the old firm. _Chérie_, you didn't suppose for a moment that I came here to disturb the sweet placidity of this cathedral town by a hideous scandal?"

"Why did you deceive me? Why did you tell me that my child was dead?" sobbed the woman, breaking down from pure impotence.

"It was the outcome of a quixotic and chivalrous desire to give freedom to one who regarded me as a monster of iniquity. Hester, I loved you in the old days, you know I did." He dropped down beside her, and seized her arm roughly. His tone changed. All cynicism dropped away, and a tigerish light leaped into his eyes. "You wanted to be free, and I, like a fool, gave up the only thing that was worth having--the woman I loved. You couldn't go back to your old life and take the child with you, and I had no fancy for having it brought up to revile the name of its father. I've brought her up well, Hester. You yourself could not have done it better. She's unsullied, innocent, and pure. Moreover, I suspect she is already married to your precious step-son."

"You suspect. You don't know?"

"I am pretty well sure of it. She deceived me a little while back and disappeared for four days. I've taken the trouble to make inquiries; and I have very grave suspicions that Miss Mabel is really Mrs. Cardew."

"Does she know that you suspect it?"

"I see the idea doesn't startle you. Perhaps you know something of it?"

"I--why should you think that I have any knowledge of it?"

"Hester, you can't deceive me. You are lying. Your dear, sweet face is like it always was, readable as an open book. I can see the emotions as they pass. Your thoughts are written in your countenance."

He tried to take her hand tenderly and draw her to him; but she shook him off with fierce anger.

"If you can read me so well, perhaps you know what I feel when I see you here before me in the flesh, devilish, cruel as ever. I hate you! I wish you were dead! If I had the strength to do it I would kill you--yes, kill you here where you stand now."

He laughed harshly, then reddened to the roots of his hair with rage. But he only shrugged his shoulders and dropped back into the old tone.

"'Murder by a Bishop's wife!' What a lovely headline for the evening papers! The mystery of a past unveiled. Lady of title with two husbands. The body in the summer house."

"Ah, you think I'm the woman you knew years ago. You think you can sneer me into subjection and taunt me into despair. I have changed. I know the world better now."

"So I observe, my dear Hester. You are older, and should know better. And you have improved in looks, but you can't afford to spoil them by tears and hysteria." He pulled out his cigar case. "You don't mind my smoking? The odor of this place is offensive. The mildew of years is on the place, and the same mildew seems to have settled in your brain as well. Yet it hasn't spoiled the peach-like bloom of your skin, or the cherry red of your lips, and your teeth are as pearly white and as wonderful when you smile as ever. If I were you I shouldn't wrestle with mental problems; they only deepen the crows' feet round the eyes. Rely upon your physical charm--a woman's most potent weapon--for--I am but a man."

He lighted the cigar leisurely, looking at her all the while. She shrank beneath his gaze, which was dim with lustful passion. "I'm to be bought, but not to be bullied, Hester. You are mine, all mine. I have chosen to live away from you and deliver you up to my lord the Bishop of Ripley, but it is too great an effort of self-sacrifice. When I see you again, more delightful than ever, is it to be wondered that Mr. Richard Bannister wants Dick Gordon's wife; and is it wise on the part of the lady who holds so responsible and prominent a public position to flaunt her charms--I note that you have put on a charming dress--before her dead husband, and load him with reproaches at the same time? Have you no word of thanks for poor Dick Gordon, who's dead?"

"What do you mean? Speak plainly. Let me understand the worst, whatever it is. Then I shall know what to do."

"The worst is, Hester, that you are still devilishly beautiful, and that I am as much in love with you as ever. I'm not good at giving up anything that I want, and when ripe fruit is dangling before my lips--well----." He sidled nearer.

"Stand away--stand away, or I'll scream! You shan't touch me, you vile, detestable thing!"

He drew back, stung to the quick, but mastered himself quickly. Shrugging his shoulders, he walked out of the arbor on to the garden path, where he looked up at the sky.

"The rain has stopped. You'll be able to come with me in the motor after all. You'd better get ready."

"In the motor? I'm not coming."

"You'll come because I tell you to, do you hear?" he cried, stamping his foot and blazing out for the first time. He shook from head to foot, and his eyes seemed to be starting out of his head. "Do you hear what I say? Come with me in the motor. Get ready. I expect my wife--do you hear?--my wife, to join me in twenty minutes."

He strode away without a look back, puffing fiercely at his cigar, and disappeared through the opening in the hedge out on to the grass that edged the drive. He saw a girl on horseback coming towards him, and he passed her by, unseeing. A moment later Lady Hester, faint and terrified, followed in his wake, just after Beatrice had passed. She followed her husband as if fascinated. He was her master still. She had lost ground in the first encounter.

Beatrice turned round on her saddle and looked back.

"Oh, that's why she wanted to get rid of me. Who'd have thought it! It's pretty rotten of her."

* * * * * * *

Those twenty minutes allowed her by Bannister were perhaps the most agonizing of Lady Hester's life. She had received an ultimatum which was in substance, "Obey me, and there is hope; defy me, and you are lost."

The situation was an impasse. One dominant idea only survived in the whirlwind of emotions that swept over her--the Bishop's good name must be safeguarded at all costs, no matter how great the sacrifice. It was she who had sinned, she who must suffer. Things might have been better if Jack's marriage had not taken place; she could have gone away with Mabel--where or how she did not question--for the tie which bound her daughter to the Bishop's son was stronger than that unholy bond which had linked her to the Bishop for so many years. The tangles in the mesh were knotted, and knotted again. There was no unravelling them. It was a nightmare where every step leads to greater terror.

The minutes slipped by before she could decide to go with her husband or defy him. When fifteen had passed, her body seemed to tell her what her brain had resolved; for she moved about the room, mechanically Collecting her garments, and all the time praying that she might have strength to refuse. She rang for Harriet, her maid--a plain, old-fashioned domestic of the vicarage days who refused to be called by her surname--and announced that, after all, she was going for a spin in the motor, and required her rugs to be taken down to the car.

At the last moment the wretched woman stood on the stairs irresolute and trembling. It was possible for him to wreck her life, and that of her child, and the man she regarded as her husband, and provoke a hideous scandal; yes, it was surely better to temporize.

She wilfully shut out any recollection of his strange glances in the summer house, and would not permit herself to believe that he was more than an ordinary villain, playing with her, as a cat plays with a field mouse, with no intention of devouring it.

The arrival of Harriet and the rugs was the first intimation that Bannister received of his wife's capitulation. He smiled triumphantly, and stood at the door of the car ready for her. He was wondering how she would look. He had noticed that some women made a striking picture in a motor veil.

She descended the steps with outward calmness, murmuring instructions to the footman as she passed, as though the drive were the most ordinary occurrence--as indeed it was, so far as the servants were concerned.

He offered his hand to assist her at the step, and his grasp closed upon her fingers tightly. Perhaps it was triumph, perhaps it was intended as a hint of his power to crush her. She wrenched her hand free as from contamination. He seated himself beside her, and talked commonplaces for the benefit of the chauffeur; but as soon as the car was well under way, and whizzing along, the winding lanes to Dingle Hall, he bent nearer and tried to be amiable.

She was incapable of any conversation, and shrank away in fear. His eyes scorched her. They were ever roving over her, noting the subtle differences made by the lapse of years. He slipped his fingers over hers; and when she tried to release herself, he held them in a vise-like grip and shot a warning glance of anger. He intended to be on a very familiar footing. His way with women was always familiar, and they allowed him a deal of license because of his insinuating courtesy and gentleness. To his wife every touch was like the searing of hot irons--at first, until her hand had rested in his for some time; then she was surprised at her indifference. The years seemed to be wiped out. His clasp was more familiar than the Bishop's. It deadened her will power, and produced a sense of deplorable weakness.

If he could mesmerize her thus, and carry her back over the gulf of years by a clasp of the hand, what was she going to do if he pressed his attentions further?

He spoke softly, and bent near to her face. When she murmured confused answers, his eyes followed the movements of her ripe, full lips with obvious pleasure. She remembered, as if yesterday, all his old tricks of admiration, and points of her beautiful person that he had praised and worshipped with passionate abandonment. In those days he always said the things a woman loves to hear, noted and admired the points which she knew to be her best, and made her feel that he was the natural complement of her nature.

She did not feel that now. It was only the intense familiarity and the bold admiration of the eye that remained. The man, the lover, the husband, was dead. This was the shell of him; a dangerous libertine hidden within. Her purity was in jeopardy, her honor at stake, yet she was defenceless, and driven into a corner.

Therefore she temporized. She studiously refrained from referring to the difficulties of the situation, and listened while he talked, and stared ahead, sometimes as if turned to stone, until they reached Dingle Hall, which she knew well by sight.

Bannister was impressed by the first glance at his future home; for he had settled in his mind that this place was going to answer his purpose, and was resolved to make it do, on account of its close proximity to the Palace. The agent's photographs and descriptions had not lied. It was a charming old house, creeper-clad over the old portions, and gleaming white where a large wing and stables had been added within the last generation. He forgot his companion, and keenly scrutinized everything as they passed till they drew up before the door, and the caretaker shuffled out.

"More than promising," he exclaimed, jumping down with unusual alacrity. "You're coming over the place, Hester, of course?"

"You're surely not going to look over it?" she murmured. "You are not serious? You don't really want the place?"

He smiled a queer smile, then laughed outright at her. "I believe, Hester, that you imagine I can't afford it. You're living in the old days. Things have changed since then. I may have been a sinner, but never a fool. And I did not--ahem--er--earn money in order to spend it with both hands. I dare say, if the truth were known, I am as rich as the dear Bishop. Come and look over the place, and give me the advantage of your advice. Your taste was always faultless. You must advise me in the furnishing, and you shall come over, sometimes, and visit me."

"Never!"

"Really, we are too haughty altogether. Hester, you will look over the place?"

"No."

"I insist!"

She obeyed meekly and followed him, shaking with fear. On the threshold he waved away the caretaker, and announced that he would go over the place unguided. His terrified wife hung back, but he seemed so genuinely interested in the house, and talked so naturally and enthusiastically, that he seemed like the old Dick who was ever hot upon a new scheme that promised big possibilities.

"This would make a fine billiard room," he exclaimed. "That room out there for cigars--and cards. No, perhaps we'll do without the cards. Let us see the library. What a fine corridor this, with the windows down one side. My pictures would look well along there. Yes, I've got some masterpieces at home, Hester. I told you I would have them some day. I bought them, too--most of them. You must see my flat in Stratton Street. It is unique in its way. This hall seems small; don't you think so?--but there, I suppose it is large enough for a house of this size. That's a nice grate there."

She found herself interested in spite of herself; for what woman does not love the imaginary furnishing of a house? He seemed to have forgotten her existence as anything but a listener, and talked in the frankest and most natural manner possible with almost boyish enthusiasm. There was no doubting his sincerity. He meant to have the place. Once she found herself wondering who would pay for it, and what was the nature of the swindle. She could not accustom herself to the idea of a rogue grown rich by cautious economy.

They exhausted all the rooms of the house, and before they had finished the survey he announced his satisfaction and intention to purchase. The grounds were the next to be visited, and at the first suggestion of getting out into the open air she agreed with too much alacrity.

"Yes, let us go into the grounds," she murmured, making for the door. They were in a large room on the first floor looking out on to the tiny park belted with woodland. Her obvious fear of being too long alone with him emphasized her helplessness.

"Not so fast, my dear Hester," he cried, seizing her arm. "You should cultivate repose; it is especially desirable in a Bishop's lady. We are quite alone now. No one can hear or interfere with us. Come to the window and let me have a good look at you. I've been admiring you all the way here, and I'm hanged if I've got any eyes for the house when you are by my side. How do you manage it? How do you keep this wonderful youthfulness? Is it ease and contentment? I could never have imagined you contented in the smug atmosphere of the church after--well, after our life. It's funny. It makes me laugh."

"Let us look at the grounds and get home," she urged, breaking away.

His fingers slipped from her soft, round arm to her wrist, and he caught her gloved hand. She cried out as if in pain. He passionately pressed her fingers to his lips, then allowed her to drop away suddenly. The miserable terror and consternation in her face angered him. Yet he was so very satisfied with himself and with the progress of things generally that he could afford to be merciful.

"There, there! I'm not going to eat you. You needn't be afraid. You can escape from my pestilential perseverence. You thought I was going to kiss you, I suppose. No, I'm not going to struggle for kisses from my own wife, like a school boy under the mistletoe. When you come back to me, Hester, you'll come of your own accord."

"Never!" she cried scornfully, and quivering with rage, in spite of her fear.

"We shall see, we shall see. At present we are purchasing an estate for ourselves"--tapping his breast--"and our daughter--our daughter, Hester."

"Do you think you are going to bring her here?"

"Undoubtedly, until it suits her husband to enlighten the Bishop. What is mine will be hers one day, when I am old bones. I presume you have nothing to leave her, Hester; and her husband hasn't made a fortune yet. Allow me to give you a hand down this staircase. It is narrow at the bend. Ah, that's a good bit of carving. Yes, I'll have more of that. I can get some panels for that corner. I've seen some at Duveen's."

His mind was still running on the house, even amid the discussion of the most vital, terrible things. She wondered how he could detach himself so completely, so quickly, so callously.

"My Israels will hang there, in the middle of a panel," he continued. "The light is subdued, and the wall will be dark. Ah, I am boring you. I was forgetting; we are to look at the grounds."

He lighted a cigar at the door, and surveyed the smiling acres stretching as far as the eye could reach, with the air of proud proprietor. At the foot of the steps she pleaded faintness, and begged to be allowed to sit and wait in the motor. Her face was very white, and he understood that she was suffering acutely.

"By all means, my dear Hester, by all means. I have tired you; allow me. I hate to see you like this. It makes me feel that it is my fault, whereas I would see you all smiles and tenderness as once upon a time. Ah, me!"

Her eyes blazed out resentfully in their helpless misery. He meant to be kind, and she imagined that he was trying to be cruel, and stabbing her at every vulnerable point. He shrugged his shoulders, and wandered away to survey his land.

It was his already, and he walked with the step of a Briton. If Hester could have found it in her heart to admire him ever so little, she would have seen him at his best at this moment. The languid, cynical affectation of the man disappeared. He was keen as a sportsman, eager as an explorer. After a long survey, which seemed as satisfactory as his examination of the house, he returned to the car and jumped in.

On the return journey he was preoccupied.

The woman sat huddled up at the other end of the seat, burning to question him, and longing to know what his real attitude towards her and the Bishop was going to be, yet afraid to speak.

He was furnishing Dingle Hall, and engaging servants, and receiving the county, a free man, with Voss banished forever, and no care for the morrow. It was only when he thought of his visitors, and pictured the Bishop and Hester arriving at the house of Jack's father-in-law in solemn state, that he looked at his wife. Then he laughed, but gave her no clue to his mirth.

She could have struck him. She was beginning to think of killing him. It seemed to be the only way. So long as he was on the earth he would do evil and breed misery. She looked at him stealthily once or twice, and wondered if it was very difficult for a woman to strangle the life out of a man, or whether she could stab, or shoot, and whether she would be horror-struck when she saw him lying dead at her feet. She even allowed herself to wonder what he would look like--dead.

Her case was desperate. It seemed more desperate than that of any other woman who had ever lived in the world before. And on the basis that desperate ills need desperate remedies, violent death was surely only a merciful end to a villain.