DEAR TRUSTEE

Mary Burchell

Cecile experienced many strange emotions when she learned that Gregory
Picton had been appointed as one of her three trustees. Why had her father
left her in the hands of such a man?
 CHAPTER I

Cecile looked round the theatre at the cream and gold of the walls and
boxes, the soft shimmer of the lights, the gleaming folds of the great
fringed curtain which seemed to hint so enticingly at a world of magic only
just concealed behind it and she drew a deep sigh of pure bliss.

It would have been impossible, she thought, to imagine any greater

contrast to her life of the last few years, which had been lived in a rather
gloomy country house in Yorkshire, with no one for company but a couple
of elderly servants and a father who, though kind, quite often forgot that
she was there at all.

And, turning to the young man at her side, she said, “I think it’s
wonderful!”

“But nothing’s happened yet.” Maurice Deeping laughed good-

humouredly. “The curtain hasn’t even gone up.”

“Oh, I know. But it’s all so—so different. Even the people coming in look
rather special and elegant, somehow.”
 “We-ell,” her companion glanced round judicially, “it's quite a
distinguished audience. But then the play is drawing the town. It hasn’t
been on for more than a couple of weeks, but it had rave notices, even for a
Lucas Manning play. Some people think it’s his best part yet. That’s his
wife, by the way, in the stage box.”

Cecile looked up with interest at the fair-haired girl who had just come in
and said, “She looks young.”

“She is several years younger than he, I suppose,” Maurice Deeping

agreed. “But if you’re a Lucas Manning, I guess an extra year or two
doesn’t affect the glamour.” And he grinned. “That’s Florian, the dress
designer, in the opposite box. He dressed the show, of course. And the
stunning-looking girl with him, believe it or not, is his wife.”

“Why shouldn’t it be his wife?” enquired Cecile interestedly.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Again that rather wicked grin. “She’s almost too
beautiful to be anybody’s wife, don’t you think?”

Then, before Cecile could comment on that, he went on “Oh, you know
who that is who has just come in on the left—”

Delighted to be glimpsing celebrities, and feeling that she really was

seeing life, Cecile looked over and saw a tall, unsmiling but good-looking
man standing by one of the entrances to the stalls and surveying the theatre
with a faintly bored air.

“No. Who is it?”

“Gregory Picton.” And then, as Cecile looked slightly blank, “The

prosecuting counsel in the Faraday case.”

"Oh—oh, yes!” She looked again, with heightened interest. “Didn’t he

settle the case with a devastating piece of cross-examination?”

“He did.”

“He doesn’t look brutal enough somehow.”

“I expect he did to Faraday,” replied her companion with a chuckle, and

then the lights began to dim.

“I don’t think he looks very nice," whispered Cecile, as the man they were
discussing slowly made his way to a seat just in front of them.

“He doesn’t have to,” Maurice Deeping replied succinctly. And then the
curtain rose and the play began.

To Cecile, whose experience of the theatre was extremely limited, it was

pure enchantment. And, in an extraordinary way, it hardly seemed any more
unreal than the amazing things which had been happening to herself in the
last few weeks.

It had all started, of course, with the death of her father and the break-up
of the very secluded, somewhat melancholy life she had lived with him.
And the first hint of it had come from Aunt Josephine who, having
managed the funeral with admirable efficiency, then took it upon herself to
discuss the future.

Aunt Josephine was the sister of Cecile’s father and she had appeared at
other times in Cecile’s life. But not often and never for very long. She
therefore started with a series of pertinent questions.

Had Cecile’s father ever talked to her about his affairs, about any plans he
might have made for her future?

“No.” Cecile had shaken her head. “He never talked to me about
anything.”

“Not about the past, either?” Aunt Josephine had asked with, Cecile
thought, some sort of effort.

“The past?”

“About your mother, for instance.”

 “Only that she died when I was quite young. When I was about four,
wasn’t it?”

“No,” said Aunt Josephine.

“When, then?” Cecile was astonished and curious.

“I don’t know that it is for me to explain what your father did not choose
to explain himself,” replied her aunt drily. “I imagine you will hear the
whole story from his solicitors. Or as much of it as he has empowered them
to tell you. You will probably be asked to go to London to see them.”

And, sure enough, though not surprisingly, since Aunt Josephine gave the
impression of never being wrong, a letter arrived the very next day from
Mr. Carisbrooke, senior, of Carisbrooke, Carisbrooke and Hayter,
informing Cecile that he had handled her father’s affairs for many years.

Mr. Carisbrooke, it seemed, had been responsible for drawing up her

father’s will, and the terms of it were such that he felt Miss Bernardine
should, if possible, come to London to discuss them.

It had been a bright spring morning when she finally set off on her
adventure, and the knowledge that she looked exceedingly attractive in her
new black suit and white hat had imbued her with a sense of light-
heartedness and eager anticipation.
 Without being in the least vain, Cecile was aware that she was easy to
look at, as the saying goes. One or two mild social affairs at her strict
finishing school had given her the first hint of that, and a glance in any
mirror would nowadays have confirmed the fact.

She was of middle height, but looked taller because of her admirable
slimness, and although her quick, eager smile had a certain quality of
naiveté about it, her darkly lashed grey eyes, and the unusually beautiful
upward sweep of her cheekline, imparted a piquant suggestion of
sophistication to an otherwise rather innocent face.

Her hair curled naturally, and was of that peculiarly attractive coppery
shade which is almost invariably accompanied by a clear, pale skin. And
her nose, without being remarkable, was well-shaped with delicately flaring
nostrils. Once or twice it had occurred to her that she did not in the least
resemble her thin, dry, ascetic-looking father, and she supposed, though no
one had ever remarked on the fact, that she must be like her dead mother.

The journey had been uneventful. No one spoke to her, though the young
man opposite smiled at her once or twice. And when he lifted down her
case for her, on their arrival at King’s Cross, the smile became so friendly
and admiring that Cecile thought passingly, “He looks nice. And his eyes
are a good, clear brown.” But then she had forgotten all about him in the
excitement of actually finding herself in London.
 At the quiet hotel which Aunt Josephine had firmly recommended, she
had been courteously, though impersonally, received. Here she had
unpacked, looked round her pleasant but featureless bedroom, and told
herself that, but for her appointment with Mr. Carisbrooke the following
afternoon, there was absolutely no one to say what she should do or not do
that evening or tomorrow—or all the tomorrows.

It was at that point that she had wondered if being completely alone in a
London hotel were quite so much fun, after all.

“But I’ll go down and have dinner,” thought Cecile, who had a healthy
appreciation of good food, “and then decide what I want to do next.”

It had been early, and the dining room was almost deserted. But, as Cecile
followed the waiter to a table by the window, she passed someone who
seemed vaguely familiar. The man half rose, as her glance lingered on him,
smiled and said, “Good evening.” And she suddenly realized it was the
young man who had been on the train.

“Why, hello,” Cecile exclaimed on impulse, and paused for a moment.

Whereupon the waiter also stopped and enquired.

“Did you wish to join Monsieur?” pronouncing it “Moosher,” in the best

accent of the B.B.C.

“Oh, no—at least—”

 “I wish you would.” The young man also spoke on impulse, it seemed.
“I’m not quite a stranger, really. I knew your father quite well.”

“Did you?” She was so surprised that she allowed the waiter to set a chair
for her. “But how do you know who I am?”

“I couldn’t help seeing your name on the luggage label when I took down
your case,” the young man explained. “And I have heard your father speak
of you.”

She was surprised and rather touched to learn that her father had spoken
about her to anyone, and nearly said as much. But instead she glanced
down at the menu and asked:

“Where did you meet my father?”

“At one or two scientific get-togethers. I’m a research chemist myself,

though not, of course, in the same class as your father. He was brilliant,
wasn’t he?”

“I suppose he was," Cecile agreed slowly. “And yet he only did it as a sort
of hobby, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Then, when Cecile had had time to order her meal, he went
on, “I should introduce myself. My name is Maurice Deeping.”
 “And you know mine.” She smiled at him. “Since my father spoke of
me.”

“Yes. And—I want to say how sorry I was to hear of your father’s death.
Although I didn’t know him intimately, I admired him greatly.”

“Thank you.” Cecile was touched and pleased to hear someone speak so
of her father, for he had been such a reserved and withdrawn type that she
had not thought of him as impressing anyone in quite that way.

“Does his death leave you very—well, very much alone?”

“I haven’t any close family, if that is what you mean,” Cecile explained.
“But if you were speaking in the very personal sense—” she paused and
considered what he had said—“I suppose I would have to say that his death
was not a shattering blow. I don't mean that I wasn’t fond of him, or he of
me, but I think his research was his real life-interest. Quite often I didn’t
see him for days on end, except for meals. And he would have forgotten
about those too if he hadn’t been reminded.”

“It must have been a lonely life for you!”

“In a way—yes. At least there is an extraordinary pleasant novelty about

being suddenly free to make one’s own decisions and go where one likes
and do what one likes.”
 “And you can now do just that?” He looked amused.

“Well, I suppose so. Why not?”

“Oh, no reason at all,” He laughed. “Only sometimes when a man leaves a

young daughter he appoints a guardian or creates a trust or something like
that.”

“A guardian!” The idea was entirely repellent to Cecile. “I’m twenty.

Nearly twenty-one. I don’t need any guardian!”

“Except that you are very pretty, if I may say so.” The young man’s eyes
twinkled. “And pretty heiresses are apt to attract fortune-hunters, in which
case a guardian is useful.”

“What makes you think I am an heiress?” She looked at him curiously.

He flushed, in what she thought was a rather nice, ingenuous sort of way,
and said, “I beg your pardon! I didn’t mean to sound inquisitive. But most
people who knew your father thought, supposed—This sounds rather
cheeky, said to you, as his daughter—but most of us had the idea that he
was a pretty wealthy chap. I haven’t the faintest knowledge of the real
situation, naturally.”

“Nor have I, to tell the truth,” said Cecile candidly, and then they both
laughed.
 Aunt Josephine would probably have said she had already talked a great
deal too much about herself to a stranger. But Maurice Deeping didn’t seem
like a stranger. And he had known and liked her father. So that when he
asked, with becoming diffidence, if she had any plans for the evening, she
told him quite frankly that she had not.

“Then please don’t mind saying ‘no,’ if you would rather be on your own
but I should be very happy to have your company, if you would care to
come with me to a theatre.”

At that moment, Cecile had felt there was nothing she would care for
more, and she had rushed off to change into her attractive short black
taffeta evening dress, while he did some intensive telephoning to theatre
agencies.

Either he was extraordinarily lucky or extraordinarily persuasive. And so

it was that, half an hour later, Cecile had found herself sitting in the sixth
row of the stalls at the Olympic theatre, and feeling that her new life of
independence could hardly have had a more auspicious beginning.

As the curtain fell at the end of the first act, to a storm of applause, Cecile
found herself clapping as loudly as anyone.

“He’s simply wonderful! They’re all wonderful,” she exclaimed

delightedly. And, a little to her chagrin, the man in front turned round and
gave her a faintly amused glance, as though he found such excessive
enthusiasm naive.

However, she had no reason to be put out of countenance by any counsel

for the prosecution. So she gave him a level glance in return, and he looked
away again immediately. Not, however, before giving her the curious
impression that he had taken in every detail about her and her companion,
and would be able, if necessary, to describe them in full at any time.

Then she forgot all about him, and remembered only that she was
immensely enjoying her first evening in London.

The next morning, as soon as she had breakfasted, she decided to go and
have a look at Mr. Carisbrooke’s office, in readiness for her afternoon
appointment. This was situated in one of the quiet courts on the south side
of Fleet Street, and Cecile spent a very pleasant half-hour strolling about
the fascinating maze of Inns and Courts which lie in that vicinity.

Presently she made her way back to Fleet Street, and, having gazed in
some awe at the imposing mass of buildings which make up the Law
Courts, she enquired rather timidly of an amiable-looking policeman if one
might go inside.

“Yes, miss. Certainly. Justice is always administered in public, as you

might say,” the policeman said. “There’s an interesting libel case on now, if
you like to look in. Up those stairs and first door on the right. If you’re
lucky,” he craned his neck and looked up at the big clock, “you may hear
Mr. Picton.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Picton. Gregory Picton. Very up and coming man, Mr. Picton.”

“I’m sure he is,” Cecile said, recalling the keen, comprehensive glance
which the up and coming Mr. Picton had given her the evening before. And,
with a lively sense of curiosity, she went up the stairs as directed.

Somehow, she had expected the court to be a huge place, and she was
disconcerted to find that it was, in fact, so small and curiously intimate that,
as she tiptoed to the front of the gallery, she felt like an intruder and an
unpunctual one at that.

However, no one took any notice of her and, having slid into her seat, she
looked down on the scene with immense interest.

Except for the Judge, unmistakable in his robes, the various personalities
were a little difficult to identify at first. The person she took to be the
defendant turned out to be no more than an unsatisfactory witness, and the
defendant was presently identified as a distinguished and respectable-
looking gentleman whose air suggested that he thought poorly of the
proceedings.
 To her disappointment, Gregory Picton was not to be seen. Until someone
in a wig and gown rose to his feet with a deceptively casual air and she
suddenly realized that this was he.

In her interest she leaned forward too far, and it was only with difficulty
that she caught back her handbag which had been resting on the ledge in
front of her. It seemed to her, in her mortification and fright, that she caused
quite a stir as she scuffled to retain her bag. At any rate, as he looked round,
Gregory Picton also took a moment to look up, and it seemed to Cecile that
he looked straight at her.

She felt herself blush furiously, and she was certain that his unusually
brilliant blue eyes narrowed considering for half a second, and that the
faintest smile passed over his lips. Then he looked away again and began to
address the Court.

Until that moment, Cecile had been sure that the defendant had an
excellent case. Also that he had felt completely secure. But now the whole
atmosphere of the Court began to change, and Cecile saw the defendant
was listening with painful attention, rather than casual disdain, and she
could discern a gleam of moisture on his face.

“I believe he’ll lose!” she thought. And the completeness of her

conviction astonished and shocked her.
 But it was when the cross-examination began that she realized how deadly
the counsel for the plaintiff could be. In fact, in her own mind she couldn’t
help thinking of him as “counsel for the prosecution”. Leaning negligently
on one hand, he proceeded to ask a series of questions which seemed
literally to peel layers of pretence from the wretched man in front of him.

There was nothing bullying about it. Only the questions followed each
other, in that quiet, relentless voice, and somehow there was no dodging
them—or the situation which they laid bare.

By the time Gregory Picton sat down again, the case was as good as over.

To Cecile there was something quite frightening in the fact that all this
had been accomplished in a quiet, almost beautiful voice, with an air of
considerable restraint. And she thought, “I should hate to be on the wrong
side of Mr. Gregory Picton!”

The case was now moving to its close, and, glancing at her watch, Cecile
decided she had better go, if she wanted to find somewhere to lunch before
her appointment with Mr. Carisbrooke.

She rose silently to her feet. But the slight movement seemed to catch the
attention of Gregory Picton. He glanced upward, and again she met that
keen glance with a sensation that was curiously like a physical shock. Then
she turned away and made her way quietly out of the gallery.
 Both policemen had a smile for her as she passed them again, and the one
at the street exit asked, “Did you hear Mr. Picton?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Pretty good, isn’t he?” The policeman spoke as though he were an actor.
And perhaps, thought Cecile, in a way he was.

“Very good,” she agreed sedately. And then she went on her way to have
lunch.

But she was excited, and even faintly apprehensive now, about her
interview with the solicitor, so she ate little, and presented herself in
excellent time at the offices of Carisbrooke, Carisbrooke and Hayter.

Here a grave and respectful senior clerk received her, conducted her to the
office of Mr. Carisbrooke, and introduced her into the presence with a
discreetly uttered, “Miss Bernardine to see you, sir.”

“Ah, come in, Miss Bernardine, come in.”

Mr. Carisbrooke, an austere, dignified, elderly gentleman, received her

courteously, installed her in a large leather-upholstered armchair and then
sat down again behind his desk and moved some papers about as though,
thought Cecile in some astonishment, he were a trifle ill at ease.
 “I was indeed sorry to hear of your father’s death, Miss Bernardine,” he
said sincerely. “An old client and a valued one, I might say. But now—” he
cleared his throat—“we have to consider your present position, which is, I
am bound to tell you, a somewhat complicated one.”

“Is it?” Cecile was surprised, and looked it.

“Yes. There is, first, the question of your mother—”

“My mother?” Cecile was more than ever astonished. “But she died years
ago, didn’t she?”

“Well—no. That isn’t quite correct,” said Mr. Carisbrooke, as though

there might be degrees of being dead. “Not correct at all,” he amended.
Then he sighed. “I am sorry your father never saw fit to explain the
situation to you himself. But, in point of fact, your mother is alive.”

“She is—alive? And no one ever told me? But why not?” In the intensity
of her feeling Cecile flushed and then paled.

Again Mr. Carisbrooke sighed.

“I am afraid your parents were deeply estranged for most of their married
life. It is an old story, of course, and no useful purpose is ever served by
reviving these melancholy disputes. I can only tell you that your father and
mother were temperamentally quite unsuited, and that when you were only
a few years old, your mother left home to—ah—pursue a stage career.”

“You mean she was—is—an actress? Here? In London?”

Mr. Carisbrooke inclined his head.

“In what are, I believe, called secondary roles,” he added somewhat

austerely.

“But then—” suddenly a great lump came into Cecile’s throat and she had
to swallow hard, “There is nothing to prevent my—my going to see her—
making myself known to her?”

“Except the fact that your father very strongly believed you were better
apart. He disapproved of her and her way of life.”

“Do you mean she was not—not respectable?”

“Oh, Miss Bernardine!” Mr. Carisbrooke was evidently horrified at being

invited to make what he regarded as a slanderous statement. “I was not
suggesting such a thing for one moment.”

“It sounded very much like it,” Cecile told him. “But, whatever my
father’s reasons, he thought it better I should regard her as dead. How
unfair!” And again, she flushed and paled.
 “That was not how your father saw it.”

“But now—” she continued to pursue her own line of thought—“now I

can make my own decisions, can’t I?”

“To a limited extent, yes.”

“Why only to a limited extent?” she asked quickly. “Am I not my own
mistress now?”

“No, Miss Bernardine. Not entirely. Your father, foreseeing that on his
death you would be very much alone, except for a mother he preferred to
have kept at a distance, appointed three trustees to look after your affairs.
And yourself,” he added as an afterthought.

“Three trustees?” Cecile, appalled, saw her new, attractive independence

beginning to fade. “You mean—people who have a right to tell me what I
must do and not do?”

“No, no.” Mr. Carisbrooke rejected this inaccurate reading of a trustee’s

duties somewhat testily. “They have power to administer your financial
affairs, possibly to decide on your place of residence and—”

“It’s more or less as I said,” Cecile interrupted resignedly. “Three of them!

How dreadful. Who are they?”
 “One is your aunt, Mrs. Coulter.”

“Oh,” Cecile became more cheerful, “that isn’t too bad.”

“Then there is Mr. Algernon Deeping, who—”

“Deeping;?” Cecile smiled and coloured suddenly. “I know someone of

that name. Maurice Deeping. He knew my father.”

“I believe this is his uncle,” Mr. Carisbrooke said. “But I must tell you
that Mr. Algernon Deeping is elderly and in poor health. I doubt if he will
take a very active part in your affairs.”

“Nor will Aunt Josephine, to tell the truth.” Cecile smiled, for she was
beginning to feel that the trustees were not going to be such a hindrance to
her as she had at first imagined. “I suppose, Mr. Carisbrooke, that you are
the third trustee?”

“No, no.” Mr. Carisbrooke disclaimed the honour firmly. “Your father
rightly chose someone well able to deal with any difficulty which might
arise. The third trustee is Mr. Gregory Picton, the well-known Q.C.”

“Gregory Picton?” Cecile stared at Mr. Carisbrooke, absolutely aghast.

“You can’t mean it! But how perfectly awful. Can’t we upset the trust or
something?”
 “Miss Bernardine, indeed we cannot!” Mr. Carisbrooke was almost
equally aghast, in his turn. “And why should we? Mr. Picton is a most
highly respected and admirable person.”

“He may be. But he’s a sarcastic sort of beast as well,” declared Cecile,
who was in no mood to choose her words. “I’ve just been watching him
tear strips off some poor wretch in Court.”

“Tear strips—” Mr. Carisbrooke’s eyes positively bulged. “You must be

completely mistaken, I assure you!”

“Oh, no, I’m not. He was counsel for the prosecution or something. And
he was perfectly frightful, in a quiet way, to the wretched accused. The man
was left without a leg to stand on.”

“But, my dear Miss Bernardine,” Mr. Carisbrooke had found his way back
out of the maze of modern metaphor, “it is not the business of the
prosecution to make the defendant feel comfortable and at ease.”

“No, I daresay not. But there are ways and ways, aren’t there?”

Mr. Carisbrooke did not seem to think there were. He smiled drily. But he
said, in a pacific tone of voice:

“Remember, you will not be in the same position as the defendant, Miss
Bernardine. You are allowing your prejudices to run away with you. Your
father knew and respected Mr. Picton highly. He felt that your interests
would be safe in Mr. Picton’s hands.”

“But do you think my father was always right, Mr. Carisbrooke?” Cecile
suddenly looked the solicitor full in the face.

“No one is always right, my dear,” Mr. Carisbrooke smiled.

“About my mother, for instance—do you think he was right to keep us

apart all these years?”

“It isn’t really for me to say,” declared Mr. Carisbrooke, not sorry, Cecile
thought, to get out of it that way.

“I suppose what I really meant was—will Mr. Picton think the situation
right and try to maintain it?”

“In consultation with the other trustees—” began the solicitor. But Cecile
shook her head and interrupted.

“No, no, Mr. Carisbrooke. You know as well as I do that neither my Aunt
Josephine nor this elderly Mr. Deeping will be specially emphatic either
way. It will be Mr. Picton who will become virtually my guardian.”

“Trustee,” Mr. Carisbrooke corrected, and he winced slightly at this

slipshod use of what he regarded as very exact terms.
 “Trustee,” Cecile accepted the correction. “But I suppose that amounts to
much the same thing in the end, doesn’t it? If he holds the purse strings, he
can dictate more or less what I do.”

“Miss Bernardine, you have a most extraordinary idea both of a trustee’s

powers and Mr. Picton’s attitude to a clearly defined legal position,”
protested Mr. Carisbrooke severely. “What he, I mean the trustees,” he
looked annoyed at his own slip, “will chiefly concern themselves with will
be—”

He broke off as there was a tap on the door and the discreet elderly clerk
insinuated himself into the room.

“Mr. Picton to see you sir,” he murmured respectfully. “And he asked me

to say that as he has another appointment, he would appreciate it if you
could see him right away.”

“Well,” Mr. Carisbrooke glanced doubtfully at his young client and away
again, “all right. Ask Mr. Picton to come in.” Then, turning once more to
Cecile, as the clerk withdrew, he said,

“I hadn’t quite covered all I wanted to say to you before Mr. Picton’s
arrival, but I think we can finish the discussion with him here.”

Before Cecile could give her views on this, the door opened and the clerk
ushered in Gregory Picton.
 “Ah, Picton, good afternoon.” Mr. Carisbrooke rose and shook his visitor
by the hand, with a nice mixture of elderly condescension and professional
respect. “Miss Bernardine, this is Mr. Picton, one of your trustees.”

“How do you do,” said Cecile as formally as she could.

“Hello,” said Mr. Picton. “What did you think of the case this morning?”

“D-did you know that I was there?”

“Certainly. It is my business to know what is going on in Court when I am

acting in a case.”

“But—in the public gallery?”

“In the public gallery too.” he assured her. “You’d be surprised how much
one can learn from the occupants of the public gallery, eh, Carisbrooke?”
He exchanged a smile with the solicitor. “The friends of the defendant often
gather there, for instance.”

“I wasn’t a friend of the defendant!” Cecile declared hastily.

“No, no. You came to hear me, naturally. Wanted to inspect your new
trustee at close quarters. Quite understandable.”
 “I didn’t even know you were my trustee then,” Cecile retorted crisply,
pleased to show Mr. Gregory Picton he could be wrong.

“You didn’t?” He seemed amused and interested. “Well, anyway, what did
you think of the case?”

She looked at that handsome, imperturbable face, with its faintly amused
smile, and some resentful instinct she could not have accounted for made
her say, quite deliberately,

“I thought you were horrible.”

"You did?” He laughed. While Mr. Carisbrooke uttered the sound which is
usually indicated by, “Tch, tch!”

“It seems the defendant did have a friend in the public gallery, after all,”
observed Mr. Picton amusedly. “And that friend no less than my own new
charge. Did you think there was a miscarriage of justice, then, Cecile?”

“I—No, I don’t think that,” she admitted.

“You feel morally certain the libel was false and malicious?”

“Ye-es.”
 “But you think I was horrible—” he savoured the word with an amused
appreciation which secretly infuriated her—“to make the libeller give
himself away? You would have preferred kindness and good manners to
have been maintained, even at the expense of justice?”

“No, of course not.” She flushed again, at being pushed into a corner thus.
“But since you insisted on asking me and quite obviously expected a
compliment, I felt entitled to tell you that your methods were odious.”

“But effective?”

“Well—yes.” She was fair about that.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Carisbrooke cleared his throat, “since Mr. Picton’s time is
short, we should revert to more personal matters.”

Privately, Cecile thought they could hardly have been more personal. But
Gregory Picton immediately sat down—a little as though the place
belonged to him, Cecile reflected resentfully—and, glancing at Mr.
Carisbrooke, asked:

“Has Cecile been told of the situation?”

“I know about my mother,” Cecile interrupted quickly, and she looked her
trustee in the eye with what she hoped was self-confidence. “And I intend
to see her as soon as possible.”
 “You have seen her, my dear,” was the unexpected reply. “In the play last
night. She was the slightly raffish friend of the heroine’s mother. In Act
Two.”

“The—the tall woman in green?” Cecile went pale.

“Yes. You didn’t notice a marked likeness to yourself?”

“Why, no. Is there one?”

“Yes, certainly. That was how I guessed who you were when I saw you
sitting in the row behind me. I thought you had found out about your
mother somehow, and had come on purpose to see her.”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Agitatedly Cecile tried to recall everything about the
minor stage character who now had such personal interest for her, and
rather defensively she exclaimed, “I thought she was wonderful in the
part.”

“It was right up her street,” agreed Mr. Picton drily.

And, while Cecile was wondering just what he meant by that, Mr.
Carisbrooke went on firmly:

“I have explained to Miss Bernardine the position with regard to you and
your co-trustees. I have not, however, explained the—er—financial
position.”

“Is there much to explain?” Cecile looked enquiring.

Mr. Carisbrooke did not reply at once. And, after a moment, it was
Gregory Picton who said, not unkindly,

“In the literal sense, Cecile, there is not much to discuss. Although your
father was a wealthy man when he made his will and appointed the trustees,
in the last year or two he used a great deal of capital in order to make some
unlucky investments.”

“Then you mean there is nothing much for the trustees to administer?”
Cecile seized on that eagerly.

“Not much,” he agreed.

“So that you haven’t got much hold—I mean control—over me?”

“I don’t know that we should ever have had much hold—or even control
—over you.” Gregory Picton looked amused again. “We are not your legal
guardians. But—I can’t answer for my fellow trustees—I myself feel I have
some sort of moral responsibility with regard to your welfare, whatever the
size of the estate.”

“Very proper,” murmured Mr. Carisbrooke approvingly.

 But Cecile merely said flatly and rather rudely, "Why?”

“Because, my dear, your father was very good to me when I was a very
young man and needed an older friend,” Gregory Picton told her. “If he
thought me a trustworthy person to look after his daughter when he was
gone, I have no intention of rejecting that obligation, either because the
estate turns out to be a modest affair, after all, or because I seem rather an
unpopular choice with the daughter concerned.”

There was silence for a moment, while Cecile considered whether or not
this were intended as an olive branch. But she decided that, even if it were,
it had been waved altogether too casually under her nose. And so she
simply asked, somewhat coldly, “How long does this trust last?”

“Until you are twenty-three.”

“Why not twenty-one? Isn’t that more usual?”

“I suppose your father thought twenty-three a safer age for you to be on

your own,” Gregory Picton said, while Mr. Carisbrooke observed that these
matters were at the discretion of the deceased.

Then Gregory Picton rose and said he must go.

“Where are you staying, Cecile?”

 “At the Stirling House Hotel.”

“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow evening? We can discuss things
in more detail then. And perhaps—” he smiled again—“get to know each
other better.”

She would have liked to refuse. But, as this was impossible, she thanked
him formally and accepted. And, having arranged to fetch her at seven the
following evening, he bade Mr. Carisbrooke goodbye. He was actually at
the door before he turned and said: “Oh, Cecile, I don’t want to act the
heavy guardian, but I would rather you did not attempt to meet your mother
until after we have had a talk together.”

Then he went off, apparently under the impression that it was enough for
him to make his wishes known. Cecile looked after him and her eyes
sparkled dangerously. But she said nothing, for the simple reason that he
had not waited long enough for her to do so.

Mr. Carisbrooke then recalled himself to her notice by clearing his throat
once more, and then informed her that he would be applying for probate of
her father’s will, after which it would be easier to clarify the financial
position.

“When Mr. Picton says there isn’t much money left,” said Cecile
thoughtfully, “does that mean that I had better set about earning my own
living as quickly as possible?”
 To this Mr. Carisbrooke gave it as his opinion that there was no immediate
urgency, “—though there will certainly not be sufficient for you to live on
without augmenting your income,” he hastened to add, before Cecile
should get any exaggerated ideas.

“Well, that’s all right.” Cecile was philosophical. “Most people have to do
at least that. And it will be more interesting than living in a mouldy old
house in Yorkshire. I shall sell the house, of course,” she added with
authority.

Mr. Carisbrooke forbore to point out that she would have to consult the
trustees, and contented himself with adding, somewhat pessimistically, “If
you can find a buyer.”

“Yes. And. if there is enough money, I should like our two maids to have a
small pension each,” Cecile continued firmly. At which Mr. Carisbrooke
looked rather alarmed.

"Miss Bernadine, there won’t be enough money to throw about.”

“I shan't throw it about,” Cecile assured him. “But they are old and can’t
work, while I am young and can.”

“I see.” Mr. Carisbrooke’s expression softened. “It’s as simple as that, is

it?”
 Cecile thought it was. And presently, having assured Mr. Carisbrooke that
she would be staying in London for some while longer and be available for
consultation, she bade him a friendly goodbye and went out once more into
the quiet and peaceful atmosphere of the tree-shaded square in which his
office was situated.

For some minutes she walked along slowly, reviewing the extraordinary
way in which her life had changed since she had entered that office an hour
or so ago.

It was characteristic of Gregory Picton, she felt sure, that he should

instruct her to wait until he decreed the time for a meeting between her and
her mother. It was equally characteristic of Cecile that she determined to do
nothing of the kind.

In fact, having glanced at her watch, with an air of obstinate determination

which would have given Mr. Picton food for thought, she quickened her
steps until she came to Fleet Street once more. Here she hailed a taxi and
drove straight to the theatre where she had been with Maurice Deeping on
the previous evening.

She was trembling as she entered the foyer, but whether with excitement
or an obscure sense of guilt she was not sure. Here she briefly studied the
list of the cast which hung near the box office.
 Mrs. Edenham—that was the name of the character in the play! And
opposite it was the disconcertingly unfamiliar name—Laurie Cavendish.
Her stage name, of course. But it seemed an incongruous name for one’s
mother to have, even for professional purposes, somehow.

Cecile approached the box office and, in as confident a tone as she could
manage, asked for the telephone number of Miss Laurie Cavendish.

“We don’t give the phone numbers of the cast,” replied the indifferent
young man framed in the small opening. “You can write in.”

“But this is urgent!” Suddenly, it seemed to Cecile that it was.

“I’m sorry,” the young man said, without any sign of regret.

“But I—I know her very well.” Strangely untrue, of course, and yet with a
sort of moving rightness about it.

“I’m sorry,” said the young man again. “Next, please.”

And Cecile realized that someone was standing behind her, no doubt
waiting impatiently to enquire about tickets.

Slowly she moved away. And, as she did so, a door at the end of the foyer
opened and a man came out. Her glance passed over him without interest in
the first moment. Then sudden, unmistakable recollection came to her.
Even without make-up he was easily recognizable. This was Lucas
Manning who was walking towards her.

Afterwards Cecile wondered how she found the courage and resolution to
address him. Perhaps the sheer necessity of catching the movement or
forever losing it prompted her. At any rate, she stepped boldly forward in
his path and said, pleadingly, “Mr. Manning—” too late she remembered
that Maurice Deeping had said he was Sir Lucas—“please could I speak to
you?”

“Yes?” He paused and gave her his famous smile.

“I want to get in touch with someone in your cast—” she spoke quickly,
breathlessly—“Miss Laurie Cavendish.”

She was aware suddenly that the famous actor-manager’s glance travelled
over her with increased attention and interest.

“If you send in a note at the stage door, it will be given to her,” he said.

“But that means quite a lot of delay. I wouldn’t see her until tomorrow
then.”

“And is it so necessary to see her today?”

“Yes. It is,” Cecile insisted, and waited hopefully.

 To her surprise, there was quite a pause before Sir Lucas replied. And then
he neither denied her request nor granted it He asked, in a rather odd tone
of voice:

“Are you a relation of hers?”

“Why, yes.” Cecile was slightly taken aback.

“I thought you must be. You are so like her.”

It was the second time this fact had been remarked upon, and it gave
Cecile the extraordinary feeling that she wanted to cry.

“Don’t think me inquisitive,” Sir Lucas went on, “but what relation are
you?”

Cecile swallowed, hesitated, and then said, “I’m her daughter.”

“I see.” Sir Lucas bit his lip. “Is she expecting you?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then I think,” he glanced at his watch, “you had better come with me
into my office for a moment. As a matter of fact, she is here in the theatre
now.”

“Here?” Cecile felt her throat and mouth go dry.

 “Yes. We have just had a run-through of the second act. But I don’t think
it would be fair, either to her or tonight’s performance, to spring an
unexpected daughter upon her without notice.” As he spoke, he had
shepherded Cecile through the door at the back of the foyer, along a narrow
passage, and into an unexpectedly large and pleasant office.

It was empty. But on the desk was a photograph of the girl Cecile had
seen in the box the previous evening, and there was also, Cecile noted with
the sharpened sense of clarity which goes with intense excitement, a
photograph of two little boys. The younger one angelic and unruffled, the
older one grave and responsible looking.

“My wife and my two boys,” explained Sir Lucas, as though he were
introducing them. “Sit down and relax.”

Cecile sat down, but it was beyond her to relax. She gazed anxiously up at
Sir Lucas and asked:

“Wh-what did you want to say to me?”

“I’m not quite sure.” He gave a short laugh. “Only I feel some sort of
preparation is necessary before what might be called the big scene. How
long is it since Laurie—since your mother—has seen you?”

“About fifteen or sixteen years. I don’t remember her at all. But my father
died recently and I found out about—about my family circumstances. And
this afternoon I discovered that my mother is alive, instead of dead, as I
imagined. And—and I want to see her.” Cecile gave an unexpected little
gulp which shamed and surprised her.

“Yes, of course. I do understand.” Sir Lucas gave her the look of

sympathetic understanding which he used with immense effect in the third
act of his current play. "But you will—”

He stopped speaking as there was a knock on the door. And, after a

second’s pause, he called out, “Come in.”

Even before the door opened, some instinct warned Cecile what was
going to happen, and, although her heart beat unevenly, she was not really
surprised that the woman who entered was uncannily like herself. Older, of
course, and with an indefinable air of knowledge and experience quite at
variance with Cecile’s rather artless expression.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sir Lucas. I thought you were alone—” The woman broke
off suddenly and stood staring at Cecile.

There was the most extraordinary moment of complete silence, which

seemed to press on one’s ears as acutely as sound. Then she said, slowly
and rather huskily:

“Who are you?”

 CHAPTER II

For a cowardly second Cecile half hoped that Sir Lucas was going to reply
for her. Then, when it became obvious that he was not, she drew a quick
breath and said:

“I am Cecile.”

“Cecile?” Her mother came slowly over to her, the expression on her face
so complicated that it was difficult to tell what emotion predominated.
Then she took her daughter by the hand, though she did not attempt to kiss
her, and said, “Why have you come?”

“Why, because I—I wanted to see you, of course—to know you. I didn’t
even know you were alive until this afternoon, when the lawyer told me.
It’s an immense discovery for me.”

“I suppose it must be.” Her mother smiled faintly at last, though she still
looked, in some odd way, wary and on the defensive.

“Laurie—” Sir Lucas intervened at this point—“I’m going to leave you

both now. This is your big scene, not mine. But stay on in the office if you
like. It’s more private than a shared dressing room. And—try not to be too
emotional over this, or you’ll be unfit for tonight’s performance.”

“I’m not being emotional over it at all,” Laurie Cavendish replied. “At
least, I don’t think I am.” She pushed back her hair. “All the emotion was
years ago. But thank you, Sir Lucas. We shan’t stay long, I imagine.”

“Well, do as you like.” The actor-manager patted Cecile on the shoulder

as he passed. “Come and see Laurie in the show one night. She’s good.”

Then he went off, leaving Cecile wondering what she was to do next.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?” She gestured rather diffidently towards a
chair. “There’s quite a lot to talk about, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know. Is there?” But her mother sat down in one of Sir Lucas’s
comfortable armchairs.

“I suppose you knew that Father died recently?”

“I saw the announcement in the papers.” Incredibly, her mother contrived

to sound quite indifferent. “Does that leave you alone in the world,
Cecile?”

Cecile hardly liked to say, “Except for you.” So instead she said, “Except
for three trustees Father appointed.”
 “Three trustees!” Her mother laughed contemptuously. “How like him to
overdo things. Why three, for heaven’s sake? And who are they?”

“Aunt Josephine is one of them.”

“Josephine?” An amused, half-reminiscent glint came into her mother’s

handsome eyes. “I’d forgotten her very existence until this moment. Who
else?”

“A Mr. Deeping. But he is ill and elderly, I understand. So, in actual fact,
I think only one trustee will take an active interest, and that is Gregory
Picton. He’s a barrister.”

“Gregory Picton?” Again there was that defensive, almost wary look in
her mother’s face. “Oh yes, I suppose your father might well choose him.”

“Do you know him?”

“Slightly. I don’t like what I know.”

It was on the tip of Cecile’s tongue to say that was her own position
exactly. But some obscure sense of loyalty to her trustee, which surprised
herself, held her back. Instead, she said, “I have only just met him.”

“Did he mention me?”

 “Oh, yes. He told me I had seen you last night in the play.”

“You saw me last night?” For the first time, her mother displayed lively
interest. “What did you think of the show?”

“I thought it was wonderful,” said Cecile sincerely.

“Did Gregory Picton bring you?”

“Oh, no. A—a friend of mine did. Mr. Picton happened to be sitting just
in front of us.”

“He didn’t suggest you should come and see me, did he?”

“Oh, no!” said Cecile again, but this time with emphasis—more emphasis
than she had intended—and her mother asked quickly, “Did he tell you not
to come and see me?”

“He wanted me to wait until he had talked to me first.”

“And why didn’t you do what he told you?” her mother asked curiously.

“I thought,” Cecile said simply, “that I was a better judge than Mr. Picton
of the right time to go and see my own mother.”

“You’re rather sweet,” exclaimed Laurie Cavendish, amused and not

displeased, Cecile saw, and at last she leaned forward and kissed her
daughter. “How would you like to come home with me now and see where
I live?”

“I should love it!” Cecile looked eager. “Is it far?”

“Not by taxi. Come along.”

Together they went out of the office, but not through the foyer this time.
A door at the other end of the passage took them out into a side street, and
here Cecile’s mother hailed a taxi.

During the short drive very little was said between them, but Cecile kept
on telling herself, “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right. It was a shock for
her. But she’s pleased really.”

Presently Cecile realized that they were quite near her own hotel. And
then they stopped before a tall house in a quiet but otherwise unattractive
street near Lancaster Gate.

“Here we are.” Her mother paid off the taxi and led the way up the
shabby stairs. “It’s expensive here, of course,” she said, to Cecile’s
surprise. “But one has to live somewhere reasonably central, or else one
drops out of everything.”

As she was walking on ahead Cecile could not see her expression, but
there as a discontented note in her voice, and Cecile thought, with sudden
and dismayed conviction, “She isn’t at all a happy person.”

The flat to which she was presently admitted, on the top floor, proved to
be unexpectedly spacious and attractive, and for the first time Cecile
realized why her mother had added “of course” to the statement that it was
expensive.

“It’s charming!” Cecile went to the window of the big living room, and
looked out through a gap between houses to a beautiful view of the Park.
“And even if it is expensive, it’s worth it for the view.”

“If you happen to have the money.” Her mother laughed drily, “But I’ll
have to get someone to share it, now they are putting up the rent. And I
shall hate that.”

“Oh, yes. That would spoil it,” Cecile agreed. “Unless—” A sudden,
breath-taking idea made her stop. “You wouldn’t like—I mean—I’m
probably coming to London to live, and I’ll have to find a place. You
wouldn’t like me to share it with you, would you?”

“Your trustee, or rather, Gregory Picton, wouldn’t agree.”

“They haven’t the final say, I mean, he hasn’t. Both he and Mr.
Carisbrooke kept on saying the trustees could act only in an advisory
capacity. Well, I don’t have to take their advice, do I?”
 Her mother laughed, and actually patted Cecile’s cheek. “You don’t
believe in the family tradition, then? This isn’t just a visit of curiosity, to be
followed by complete ostracism?”

“Of course not. How could you think so?”

“Because it would be the most natural thing,” her mother said drily. “Very
few people ever outlive their early upbringing or prejudices. I don’t know
why you should be different.”

“But I wasn’t given any early prejudices. I was just told that you were
dead.”

“Yes. That’s true.” Her mother looked reflective. “So you think you might
like to live here with me?”

“If—if you liked the idea—yes.” Cecile stifled the sudden sense of
misgiving which told her she was acting too hastily.

“There is nothing in the world I should like better,” her mother said
slowly, and so totally unexpectedly that Cecile felt the tears come into her
eyes.

“Then of course I’ll come,” she cried. And, without any reservations this
time, she flung her arms round her mother and hugged her. “It’s a
wonderful solution.”
 “I hope you can make Gregory Picton see it that way,” was her mother’s
dry reply. “Would you like a drink, Cecile? I can’t keep you long, because I
want to rest before the performance.”

“I’d rather have some tea,” Cecile said frankly.

“Very well, if you don’t mind making it yourself. You’ll find everything
in the kitchen—through the door on the right. If you are going to live here,
you’d better start finding your way about.” And, flinging herself down on
the sofa by the window, she seemed prepared to leave Cecile to her own
devices.

Cecile was enchanted, and asked if she would have tea too. “Yes. China
tea. And you’ll find some biscuits in the square red tin.”

To Cecile it seemed that she was being made free of a new home, to
replace her old one. In the small but well-appointed kitchen she found all
she wanted, and she took the greatest pleasure in setting an attractive tea-
tray for herself and her mother.

“Look, Mother! I found everything.” She carried in her tea-tray and set it
down triumphantly.

Her mother glanced over her handiwork with a faintly indulgent air, but
she said firmly,
 “For heaven’s sake! Don’t call me that. You put years on to my
professional age.”

“Oh—” Cecile looked dashed. “What shall I call you, then?”

“Laurie, I suppose. What else?”

Cecile did not know what else. Only she felt that Laurie was an absurd
name by which to call one’s mother.

However, she saw that this was neither the time nor the subject for
argument. So she changed the subject to the much more congenial one of
the play she had seen the previous night.

“You’re really a wonderful actress, aren’t you?” she said almost naively.
“I was simply thrilled.”

“No. I’m not. I’m a good, reliable stand-by. I haven’t even a glimmer of
the divine spark. I know that now.” Laurie Cavendish spoke with a sort of
bitter candour.

“Oh, that isn’t true!” Cecile was emphatic. “I just could not imagine
anyone playing that part better than you did.”

“But then you’re not very experienced, are you?” Her mother smiled
slightly. “And, anyway, in all essentials, that part is me.”
 “Oh, it isn’t!” Cecile was shocked, and showed it. “Why, she’s rather a—
a horrid woman in the play.”

“Well, I’m rather a horrid woman,” was the cool reply. “You don’t battle
with life as I have had to do, and watch most of your hopes wither, without
becoming rather horrid in the process.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.” Cecile was distressed. “I’m sure it
isn’t true. You’re just posing.”

“Sometimes one has to if life’s tough,” her mother told her. But she
smiled and gave Cecile that half-indulgent glance again. Then, without
embarrassment or apology, she said that she must go.

“It’s later than I thought.” She glanced at her watch. “You can come again
sometime.”

“But when?” Cecile was taken aback at the vagueness of this.

“Oh—I don’t know. Where are you staying? The Stirling House Hotel?
Oh, that’s quite near. We’ll arrange something.”

She did not offer to kiss Cecile goodbye. But neither did she seem to
mind when her daughter bent over and lightly touched her cheek with her
lips.
 “Goodbye, Laurie—” Cecile managed it quite well—“I’ll see you soon.”

“Perhaps,” was the skeptical reply. And then Cecile went. She walked the
short distance to the hotel in a turmoil of excitement and agitation. And so
concerned was she with all that had happened that she was quite astonished
to be greeted by Maurice Deeping as she stepped inside the hotel. He was
like another chapter in her life. Quite a distant chapter, at that.

However, quite unaware of this of course, Maurice took her off to a

secluded corner of the quiet little bar, provided her with a long, cool drink,
and queried her.

“Well? What happened today?”

“I don’t know where to begin,” Cecile confessed, pushing her hair back,
with a gesture which was reminiscent of her mother, if she had but known
it. “At least—oh, yes, I do! Tell me, have you got an Uncle Algernon?”

“Yes, indeed. Rich as a nabob, old as sin, and mean as they make them,”
replied Maurice cheerfully.

“Oh. Well, he has been made one of my trustees.”

“I don’t believe it!” Maurice looked quite startled, and then began to
laugh. “One of them, did you say? How many are there?”
 “Three,” she explained about Aunt Josephine and Gregory Picton, adding,
“I met him this afternoon, and I don’t like him.” Which somehow seemed
quite all right to say to Maurice, whereas to her mother it would have
savoured of disloyalty, though she was not quite sure why.

“Why?” asked Maurice.

“Oh—I don’t like his air of expecting the world to stand aside, because he
knows where he is going. And, anyway, he was horrid about my mother
and didn’t want me to go and see her.”

“Your mother? But I thought you had no mother.”

“So did I until this afternoon,” said Cecile, which naturally involved her
in further explanations.

“It’s a fascinating story,” declared Maurice at the end. “But why do we sit
here discussing it? I’d like to take you out to dinner. Somewhere I know
outside London, where we can dance, if you like, or otherwise look at the
river and tell each other our life-stories.”

“You know mine,” Cecile said. “In fact,” she added soberly, “I’m afraid
I’ve talked altogether too much about myself.”

“You couldn’t,” he assured her.

 But she laughed and declared he should have his turn. And so, half an
hour later, as they drove out of town in Maurice’s undistinguished but
useful little car, she said, “Tell me some more about Uncle Algernon. If
he’s going to be a trustee of mine, I had better know the worst.”

“Oh, he won’t trouble you much.” Maurice was reassuring. “He’ll

probably leave you to your own resources, so long as you don’t bother him.
Or ask him for money,” he added, so feelingly that Cecile felt he must
himself have done that some time, with discouraging results.

“Well, I shan’t need to do that, anyway,” Cecile smiled.

“No, of course not.” Maurice laughed with such genuine amusement that
she then recalled that she had not explained about her being a
comparatively poor girl, after all. But she felt ashamed to go back to her
own affairs again, so she did not pursue the subject. Instead, she enquired if
he lived with his Uncle Algernon.

“Heavens, no! What gave you that idea?”

“Oh, I just thought—you obviously live somewhere outside London, as

you’re staying at a hotel. And I wondered if—Where does Uncle Algernon
live, by the way?”

“Near Aylesbury. In a great big splendid house which he doesn’t enjoy in

the least.”
 “I begin to be quite sorry for him,” Cecile said. “Now tell me where you
live.”

“Not anywhere at the present moment,” Maurice confessed. “I’ve been in

Leeds for about a year, in digs, while I worked in the Yorkshire laboratory
of my firm. But now I’m coming south again. That’s why I went to Slough
today—to fix up the transfer. And now I’m having a few days’ leave before
starting in the new place.”

“How nice!” Cecile smiled with frank pleasure.

“That I have a few days’ leave?” He grinned.

“That too, of course. But I really meant that I’m glad you’re going to live
near London. I expect I’ll be settling here too. So we won’t have to say
goodbye at the end of these few days.”

“We weren’t going to anyway,” he assured her, with such conviction that
she smiled again. And, after that, the evening seemed to have a special
enchantment.

They dined on a terrace overlooking the river, as he had promised, danced

in a small, but gay and friendly ballroom, and drove home finally when a
benign full moon was touching even the roofs of the Stirling House Hotel
with silver magic.
 Tired but exceedingly happy, Cecile hardly dared to glance at her clock
when she got into bed at last, and inevitably she slept unusually late the
next morning.

It was the sound of the telephone which finally dragged her to the surface
of consciousness once more, and sleepily she grasped the receiver and said,
“Yes? Who is that?”

“It’s Laurie. You sound as though you’ve only just woken up,” replied her
mother’s voice.

“I have.”

“Do you want to go back to sleep again?”

“No, no. Of course not.” Cecile glanced at her clock. “Why, it’s nearly ten
o’clock. Almost too late for breakfast.”

“Is it?” Her mother yawned slightly. “Why don’t you dress leisurely and
come and have coffee with me? Would you like that?”

“I’d adore it!” Cecile declared. And, as soon as her mother had rung off,
she jumped out of bed, rushed through bathing and dressing, and emerged
from her room an hour later, in a green linen suit which was infinitely
becoming, besides being a happy salute to the lovely day.
 It took a little longer to walk to her mother’s place than she had expected,
and when she arrived in the street, she discovered, to her annoyance, that
all the houses looked very much alike, and that she had not made a note of
the number.

Most of the houses had several doorbells, with the names of the flat
occupants printed or written above them. So Cecile was obliged to go into
each doorway and study these in turn. By the sixth attempt she was
becoming hot and anxious, but she picked out her mother’s name at last
and was so much relieved that she did not even notice that a car had drawn
up at the curb immediately outside the door.

She had actually stretched out her finger to press the bell, when someone
said coldly and drily behind her, “Good morning, Cecile. What are you
doing here?”

And, with the sensation of being caught in the very act of lifting down the
forbidden jam-pot, she turned to face Gregory Picton. “Why—why, what
are you doing here?” she stammered.

“I asked that question of you first,” he reminded her relentlessly.

“Very well then—” she tilted up her chin—“I have come to see my
mother, as no doubt you guessed for yourself.”
 “I particularly asked you not to do that, Cecile, until I had had a chance to
talk to you.”

“Oh the contrary,” she retorted, with some return of her usual spirit, “you
merely stated it as your lordly wish that I should keep away until you
decreed the proper time. You made no attempt to find out my wishes,
although it was my mother who was concerned. I saw no special reason,
therefore, why my inclination should be set aside for yours.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, though without visible signs of regret, “if I put it
tactlessly. But I spoke with good reason. Will you please, Cecile, wait until
after our talk this evening before deciding to see your mother?”

“No,” replied Cecile flatly. “And, anyway, I have seen her already. I saw
her at the theatre yesterday afternoon, and I went home with her
afterwards.”

For a moment she was frightened by the quick anger which flashed into
his face and almost as much so by the chilly self-control which
immediately subdued it.

“Then there is no point in arguing further,” he said coldly. “We will leave
any further discussion to this evening.”

And, turning away, he went back to his car, and drove off without so
much as a backward glance.
 Still trembling from the encounter, and still quite unable to imagine why
he had materialized on her mother’s doorstep at precisely the wrong
moment, Cecile pressed the bell and, after a few moments, the door clicked
open, evidently operated by some mechanism overhead.

As she ran up the stairs, she told herself she felt triumphant and elated.
But she could not quite suppress the reflection that if she had waited just
thirty-six hours longer perhaps both loyalty and good sense might have
been satisfied.

A delicious scent of coffee met her as she entered the flat, and her mother
called out from the kitchen, “Is that you, Cecile? I thought you would be
here sooner.”

“I forgot the number and took longer than I expected to find the place.”
Cecile came to the kitchen door, to smile at her mother, who was standing
by the stove, looking very young and attractive in a blue flowered house-
dress. “Does it matter much?”

“Not really. Except that I’m expecting another visitor, and I wanted you
to be the first.”

“Well, I am the first.” Cecile took the tray and carried it into the other
room. “Who else is coming?”

“Gregory Picton,” said her mother, a trifle too carelessly.

 “O-oh? So that was why I met him on the doorstep. I’m afraid he went
away again, Laurie.”

“He did?” Her mother frowned. “How vexing! He telephoned to ask if he

could come and see me this morning. That’s really why I rang you. I
wanted you to hear whatever he had to say to me—and for him to see that
you don’t want to brush me off, as everyone else had done for years.”

“He knows that already,” Cecile said quietly, which in some odd way
seemed to reassure her mother. “But I wonder why he wanted to come and
see you?” she added, after a moment.

“In order to tell me to keep away from you, I suppose.”

“Oh, no! He couldn’t be so absurd and officious!”

“Why not?”

“Weil, it seems so—so—excessive.”

Her mother laughed, but without amusement.

“Gregory Picton doesn’t like me,” she said flatly. “He’ll do everything he
can to set you against me. And I expect he’ll succeed in the end.”
 She flung herself down in a chair and stared out of the window, looking,
to Cecile’s distress, indescribably tired and defeated.

“He won’t do anything of the sort!” Cecile came and knelt by her
mother’s chair and put an arm round her. “Don’t look like that, darling.
Neither Gregory Picton nor anyone else is going to separate us. I promise
you.”

“Oh, Cecile—you don’t know.” Laurie gave a quick sigh, but she absently
returned Cecile’s kiss.

“What don’t I know?”

“Almost everything about this hard arid horrid wicked world,” her mother
replied, with a slight laugh.

“Oh, Mother! Laurie, I mean, I’m not quite such an innocent!” Cecile was
slightly annoyed. “I know what I want, and mostly I know how to get it.
Think of yesterday, for instance. I didn’t stop at much when I was
determined to see you, within an hour of hearing of your existence.”

“Oh, Cecile,” her mother threw her arms round her, “be even half as
determined to go on seeing me, will you?”

“Of course—of course,” Cecile vowed. And at that moment she felt quite
calm and courageous about her interview with Gregory Picton that
evening.

Presently her mother said something about a lunch appointment, and it

was evidently time to go. This time, however, she bade Cecile quite an
affectionate goodbye and told her she might come again when she liked. So
that Cecile left the flat happier and more reassured, and went to her
appointment with Maurice Deeping in good spirits.

Over lunch he asked her when she was going to see her other trustees, at
which Cecile looked surprised and said, “I don’t know. I don’t have to do
anything about Aunt Josephine, I suppose.”

“But what about my Uncle Algernon?”

“I hadn’t thought about him,” Cecile confessed.

“Well, think about him now,” Maurice suggested. “How about letting me
drive you down to see him tomorrow? We could lunch somewhere on the
way.”

The idea appealed immensely to Cecile, particularly as it would give her

more or less a day in Maurice’s company. So she agreed immediately, and
kept that thought cheeringly in the background of her mind as her rather
frightening interview with Gregory Picton drew nearer.
 With the obscure but perfectly sound idea that she would be better able to
handle the situation if she knew she was looking her best, she took the
utmost pains with her appearance that evening. And it was a quite lovely,
self-possessed looking girl, in youthfully elegant black, who came forward
to greet Gregory Picton when he arrived to collect her.

“Hello,” he greeted her in a manner which seemed to take no account of

the way they had parted that morning. “You’re looking quite stunning,
Cecile. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Oh, no. I had only just come down.”

He took her out to his waiting car and, without much conversation
between them, they drove to the Savoy. As they entered the Grill Room,
Cecile was aware—rather pleasurably aware—that people looked after
them with interest. It was the first time she had ever walked into a public
place in company with someone celebrated.

Not until they were seated at a pleasantly secluded table, and their
delicious-sounding meal had been ordered, did he look across the table at
her and say, “Well, Cecile, I suppose we can’t avoid a frank discussion
much longer.”

“About my mother, you mean?” She spoke quickly and resentfully.

 “Among other things,” he agreed drily. And she dropped her glance and
remained mutinously silent.

“Cecile,” he said abruptly, “look up.”

She was startled into doing so immediately, and found him watching her
in a half-amused, half-exasperated manner. “Why did you look so sulky
and resentful?”

“You have tried to set me against her,” she exclaimed accusingly.

“No, Cecile, that isn’t true. All I wanted was to have some time in which
to give you an idea of the background. To warn you not to start on a degree
of intimacy from which it might be difficult to retreat.”

“And suppose I don’t want to retreat from any degree of intimacy?”

Cecile retorted angrily.

“I thought you might when you knew the facts.”

“The facts?” Cecile looked scornful. But the waiter came to change their
dishes just then, and during the enforced silence she had time to feel
disquiet as well as anger.

“What did you mean?” she asked, when they were alone again. “I know
my parents didn’t get on, and that she left him—and me—many years ago.
But there must have been two sides to the dispute. I know, better than most,
that my father was not the easiest man to live with. Life at home was dull
and melancholy enough for me. To anyone of her disposition it must have
been insupportable.”

“But don’t you think the dullness and melancholy may well have dated
from the time when your father’s affections and pride were crushed by the
desertion of his wife?”

“I can’t say about that. No one can know—or decide who was more to
blame,” Cecile said firmly. “I only know that she is my mother, and that a
very harsh judgment has kept her from me until now.”

“She chose that, my dear. It was not enforced upon her.”

“You can’t be sure of that.” She looked shaken. “That’s my father’s side
of the story.”

“Do you think he would have lied about it?”

“N-no. Not that.” Cecile was convinced of her father’s integrity, in this as
in anything else. “But he couldn’t be expected to give an unbiased account.
He must have felt very bitter.”

“I suppose he did. But I do know, Cecile, that your mother went away, of
her own free will and stayed away. I don’t know, any more than anyone
else, what would have happened if she had tried to come back. I only know
that the attempt was never made, and that was why your father let you
suppose your mother had died.”

There was a rather long silence. Then she said huskily, “I accept that, if it
is my father’s account of things. But no mere recital of facts can give more
than the bare bones of the situation. I don’t blame her for making no
attempt to come back—to see me again. Who can say what considerations
kept her away? Pride, or fear, or the conviction that she had gone too far
ever to turn back. You’re used to being Counsel for the Prosecution. But
I’m not. I’m just her daughter. And I am entitled to make excuses for her.”

“My dear,” said Gregory Picton, and his voice was oddly gentle, “you
shall make what excuses you like for her. But I must, in fairness to your
father, tell you that he did not force her away or keep her away. He merely
gave you a very final interpretation of her permanent absence.”

“But you told me, Mr. Carisbrooke told me too, that he preferred us to
remain apart always. That—that he thought her an unsuitable companion
for me,” Cecile reminded him unhappily.

“Well,” Gregory Picton made a slight face, “that’s a different story. I wish
I didn’t have to tell you so much. But perhaps I have to give you all the
facts in order to justify my insis—” He stopped, changed the word, and
said, “My suggestion that you should see as little as possible of your
mother.”
 “You were going to say ‘insistence’, weren’t you?” Cecile looked him in
the eye. “It isn’t any good, you know. I have no intention of letting anyone
insist, any more, about what I do or do not do in connection with my
mother. And I may as well tell you here and now that I intend to live with
my mother. She needs someone to share her flat with her, and I’ve arranged
that I shall do so.”

“But you can’t do that without the agreement of the trustees,” he retorted
sharply.

“Are you sure?” Cecile sounded much more self-possessed than she felt.
“I should have to ask Mr. Carisbrooke about that.”

“Cecile, don’t speak in that tone of voice! You sound like her. Hard and
uncaring.”

The distaste in his voice and, even more, the dismay, struck her like a
physical blow, and she blinked her long lashes and looked taken aback.

“I—I didn’t mean to sound hard or uncaring. But you haven’t told me
anything yet which makes me feel I should turn my back on my mother. If
she left my father—and me—I’ve no doubt it was very wrong of her. But
perhaps also she was terribly sorry later, and there was no way back. If she
wants me to go and live with her, I shall go and live with her.”
 “Not,” said Gregory Picton quietly, “so long as I have anything to say
about it.”

They stared at each other across the table, like enemies, and with some
detached part of her mind Cecile thought, “How can anyone so handsome
look so bleak and ruthless?”

Then she heard herself say, again with more quiet self-possession than
she would have thought possible, “I’m not the only one who is being hard
about this, Mr. Picton. If you want to convince me that my mother is an
unsuitable person for me to be with, you will have to find better reasons
than you have given me so far.”

“I hoped I should not have to give them.” For an odd moment, she had the
impression that he was distressed, beneath all that chilly calm. “But, if you
insist, you shall have them.”

He hesitated a moment, as though choosing his words. Then he said, in a

curiously unemotional tone, “When your mother left home, there was
another man involved.”

“That isn’t entirely unexpected, and who are we to judge the

circumstances?” interrupted Cecile quickly.

“Wait a minute. The man was already married—”

 “And she went away with him?”

“Not in the usual meaning of the term. She used him to further her stage
aspirations. I don’t think there was every any real affair between them. I
don’t think she was even fond of him. But he was mad about her, and she
cashed in on the fact.”

“Are you quoting my father still?” Cecile spoke scornfully.

“No.”

“Then how can you be so confident of your assertions?”

“I had my own reasons for checking on the story later,” he retorted coldly.
“It was a conscienceless business. She broke up this man’s marriage
ruthlessly, in order to use his money and his influence for herself.”

“And what about him?” exclaimed Cecile indignantly. “Has he nothing to

answer for? Why should he be thought the innocent victim?”

“He was not. The innocent victim was the man’s wife.”

“O-oh.” Cecile bit her lip.

“She adored her husband and she was the rather defenceless type. It was
some while before she realized the position. Then she was suddenly faced
with the fact that her husband was crazy about another woman. He
demanded a divorce, in brutally frank terms. He said afterwards—though
here you are entitled to your own view, of course—that the other woman,
that your mother, drove him on.”

“But you don’t know that!” exclaimed Cecile, pale and distressed.

“No. I am only telling you the story as it was told to me. Anyway, the girl
—the wife—was half mad with grief and shock. There was no one to
whom she could turn or in whom she felt she could confide. She took what
she thought was the way out—Or did she just make a mistake?” He stared
in front of him, and suddenly Cecile saw that he was no longer quite aware
of her. “We shall never know now. Anyway, she took an overdose of
sleeping tablets.”

“Oh, no—no! That can’t be the exact—the whole story!” Cecile was
indescribably distressed. By the story itself, by her mother’s reported part
in it and, in some odd way, by the quiet but passionate intensity of Gregory
Picton’s manner.

“Those were the facts.” His voice sounded hollow and toneless all at
once.

“But, as I said before, the bare facts of a story are not everything. You
didn’t tell the story objectively—you gave it some sort of cruel bias. You
were Counsel for the Prosecution again, and you told the story as though
you wanted Laurie to be terribly to blame. As though it were a bitter,
personal matter.”

“It is a bitter, personal matter,” he said harshly. “The girl happened to be

my sister.”
 CHAPTER III

“Your sister?” Cecile’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she stared at

Gregory Picton in indescribable dismay. “Your sister? Oh, how awful. But
she must have been—I mean, it’s all so long ago—How old was she when
this happened?”

“She was twenty-three when she died,” he said slowly. “It was terribly
young to die.”

Cecile swallowed.

“And you?” she asked, as though she could not help it. “How old were
you?”

“Just under twenty.”

“She was much younger than her husband, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes. That was partly why she adored him. And why she had no
chance against an older, more sophisticated woman.”

Cecile shut her eyes for a moment, and before her inner vision there rose
the picture of her mother as she was now. Lovely still, but hard and
unhappy and disillusioned.

“I’m sorry,” she heard Gregory Picton say, and she opened her eyes and
looked at him again through the tears which she felt she must not shed.

“There was no way of telling the story gently.”

“I know.” She put out her hand to him across the table, in the first friendly
gesture she had felt like making to him. “You poor boy—you poor boy!”

“Oh, Cecile—” He gave a surprised little laugh and took her hand. “Why
be specially sorry for me?”

“I’m sorry for you all,” she said simply. “But for anything like that to
happen to you when you were so young ... It must have poisoned
everything for a while ... killed all one’s—one’s joy.”

“I suppose it did,” he agreed slowly. “I was very fond of her, you see. She
was my only sister. And, oddly enough, I was very fond of him too. He was
big and attractive and handsome, the natural centre of any circle. And he
was very influential, of course,” he added drily.

She bit her lip, knowing that he had used the last term advisedly, and that
it contained oblique criticism of her mother. “Did this break him up too?”
she enquired diffidently.
 “He went abroad almost immediately after the inquest. I never saw him
again.”

Nor did her mother, Cecile supposed. The man who was to have given her
all she wanted, in exchange all she had thrown away, just went out of her
life. No wonder she often looked bleak and disillusioned.

Cecile drew a long sigh.

“I’m not going to try to defend her,” she said at last. “It would be
impertinent to do that to you, of all people. But because this has been
forced upon us, as an issue between us, I have to mention the—the
extenuating circumstances, if only to explain my own position.”

He was rather discouragingly silent, but she forced herself to go on.

“I do understand how you feel about your sister—please believe me. But
try to understand how I feel about my mother, too. She did a dreadful
thing, I know, but the result was beyond anything she could have
foreseen.”

“She took the risk of whatever followed in consequence of her action.”

“Well, yes—of course. Insofar as any woman who takes away another
woman’s man runs that risk. But she didn’t engineer the tragedy. It must
have come as a crushing blow to her too.”
 “Are you asking me to pity your mother?” he enquired drily.

“No,” Cecile said quietly. “I am asking you to understand that I have a

right to pity her.”

He stared down at the tablecloth without saying anything. And suddenly

she leaned forward and spoke to him softly but urgently.

“Gregory,” he looked up, startled by either her tone or her mode of

address, “I’ve only just come into this story, remember. Until yesterday, I
didn’t even know my mother was alive. Now I find her—a lonely, sad,
disillusioned woman with a dreadful weight on her conscience. Do you
really think I should be right to judge her ruthlessly and thrust her out of
my life again?”

“That wasn’t what I was going to suggest—entirely. I just don’t want you
to go and live with her.”

“Why?”

“Because of what I have told you, of course.”

“Do you think she’ll contaminate me, in some way?”

“No. Not that. You’re that curious mixture of sense and innocence that
can touch pitch and not be defiled, I suppose,” he replied unexpectedly.
 “I don’t know about that—” she brushed the idea aside, “but, m this case,
there isn’t any pitch to touch. I understand your not wanting to have
anything to do with her, after what you have told me. But that’s between
you and her. What exists between me and her is, by nature, one of the
strongest human ties. If that draws me to her and makes me want to share
her home, the only thing against it is that, fifteen or sixteen years ago, she
did something very wrong, for which she may have been bitterly sorry ever
since, for all I know.”

“Are you so sure of her remorse?” he enquired skeptically.

“Do you always assume guilt until innocence is proved?” she retorted,
and she saw him look startled again.

He was silent for quite a long time. Then, with what she thought to be
something of an effort, he said, “You’re very set on this arrangement of
going to live with her?”

“Yes, I am. Perhaps if I had known everything in advance, I should not

have plunged so impulsively,” Cecile admitted, with a frankness which
made him smile faintly. “But I made the suggestion, and it meant a lot to
her. If I withdrew the offer, after she knew I must have heard the old story,
it would do something dreadful to her. I know it!”

He was silent again, and Cecile had the impression that he did not mind
much if it “did something dreadful to her.” And perhaps one could not
blame him for that. So she did not hurry him. After a while he said, “I don’t
say I like the arrangement, or that I think it a wise one. But I withdraw my
personal opposition, if that is what you want me to say.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Picton!”

“I was Gregory when you were trying to get round me,” he reminded her,
with that dry smile.

She laughed and flushed slightly.

“Do you want me to go on calling you that?”

He looked extremely amused for a moment.

“It has a pleasing sound,” he admitted. Then, apparently remembering his

duties as a host, he summoned the waiter to bring a trolley of delectable
sweets.

“I’m sorry, Cecile. I’m afraid I haven’t given you a very enjoyable
evening so far. But this talk was unavoidable. Choose something really
good now, and let’s talk of something else.”

She did as he bade her, though she wondered quite what they could
discuss that would not be an anticlimax to the drama of their earlier
conversation. Perhaps he thought that too, after a moment’s reflection,
because he said, “What would you like to do now? It’s late for a show, I’m
afraid, except the review at the Intime, which is very good, I understand.
Would you like to dance, or go driving, or what?”

She hesitated.

“May I really choose? Even if it’s something you won’t specially enjoy
yourself?”

“How do you know what I enjoy?” he countered amusedly. “The choice is

entirely yours.”

“Then,” she said quickly and rather breathlessly, “I should like to go once
more to the Lucas Manning show, even though we shall miss the first act.
She—she doesn’t come in until the second act. And I want to see her do
that part again—knowing what I now know. Do you mind?”

“Even if I did, Cecile, you should still have your wish,” he told her with a
smile. “But, as it is, I can always bear to see consummate acting a second
time.”

“Oh, thank you! But I forgot—shall we be able to get seats? The place is
booked out, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But, unless Manning’s box is full, we can go in there. I know him
quite well,” Gregory Picton explained.
 And so they finished their coffee quickly and drove the short distance to
the theatre, to find that Sir Lucas’s secretary was only too willing to
accommodate them.

“I’m sure you can go in, Mr. Picton.” She smiled at the good-looking,
celebrated Q.C. as though no one would think of opposing his wishes.
“There’s only Lady Manning in the box. Oh, and a friend of hers who
couldn’t get a seat at the last minute and asked her to help. There’ll be
plenty of room.”

“But we won’t intrude if Lady Manning has a friend there,” Cecile began.

The secretary was cheerfully positive about their being welcome,

however.

“It’s just an acquaintance, really,” she explained, with a nice distinction.

“Someone who arrived from the States only yesterday I believe. The
curtain is just going down on the first act, so I’ll take you up now and
make the explanations.”

She wafted them up the short flight of stairs, and as they reached the door
of the box, Lady Manning came out alone.

“Oh—hello, Gregory!” She seemed slightly taken aback, Cecile thought

in that first moment. “What are you doing here?”
 Gregory explained and introduced Cecile.

“But if you like to have your friend to yourself, of course you must just
say so.” He smiled at the charming, fair-haired girl who had won the
desirable Sir Lucas almost without knowing how she had done it.

“Oh, no, of course not!” She was still holding Cecile’s hand in a friendly
clasp, and Cecile felt her fingers tighten for a moment. “It’s just that—the
friend is Felicity Waring.”

There was an infinitesimal pause before Gregory Picton said lightly,

“Well, that’s all right. We ought to have quite a lot to talk about. I haven’t
seen Felicity for—it must be almost a year. I didn’t know she had come
back from the States.”

“It was only yesterday,” Lady Manning explained. “But go in and have a
talk with her. I have to go to Lucas for a few minutes.” And she nodded to
them and went off, taking the secretary with her.

“Who is Felicity Waring?” enquired Cecile in a whisper, as they turned

towards the door of the box.

“A one-time client of mine,” said Gregory uninformatively. And then they

went into the box, and a dark, slender, infinitely elegant looking girl turned
to look over her shoulder.
 “Why Greg!” she exclaimed, and Cecile heard—or thought she heard—
both dismay and pleasure mingle with the surprise in her tone. “Where did
you come from? And on the very day after my return to London, too.”

“From the Savoy,” replied Gregory Picton literally. “And by pure chance,
I assure you. May I introduce Cecile Bernardine, who is more or less my
ward.”

“Your ward?” There was no great degree of cordiality in the way she
accepted the introduction, and she turned back almost immediately to
Gregory. “I didn’t know you included the guardianship of young girls in
your professional duties.”

“I don’t,” said Gregory. “I am only a trustee.”

“It’s more or less the same, isn’t it?”

“No. But we won’t go into the technical difference now. Tell me what you
are doing back in London?”

“I got tired of the States. You don’t know how tired, Greg! I began to
think of happier days here. I wondered,” she traced a pattern on the edge of
the box with an immaculately manicured forefinger, “if I had made a
mistake in ever going away. And I decided to come back. That’s all.”
 Privately, Cecile thought it was enough, if one said it in that reflective,
significant tone. And she glanced surreptitiously at Gregory to see how he
took this speech.

He was looking away across the theatre, however, and after a few
moments’ silence, he spoke about the play and asked how Felicity had
enjoyed the first act. After that, conversation was desultory and quite
impersonal, between the three of them, until Sydney Manning came back
into the box.

She slipped into her seat just as the lights were dimming. And Cecile no
longer had attention for anything except what was happening on the stage,
as she watched, with almost painful eagerness, for the entrance of the
member of the cast who meant so much to her.

When she had seen the play before, “Mrs. Edenham” had been merely
one of a number of clever performers who helped to make a play
memorable. Now Cecile watched her with a personal interest and pride in
her performance. And also with a compassionate awareness of why it was
that her mother gave every nuance of the part with wonderful point and
understanding.

“The raffish friend of the heroine’s mother,” was how Gregory Picton had
described the role, and it was apt. An unhappy creature, with a suspected
“past” and no illusions, even about herself. She made no bid for anyone’s
sympathy, but to Cecile she was suddenly unbearably pathetic.
 As the curtain fell, she turned to Gregory and said, “Thank you.” But with
a simple intensity which made Felicity Waring glance at her, again without
favour.

“That’s all right,” he assured her, and for a moment his eyes met hers in a
glance of smiling understanding which set them apart from the other two in
the box.

It is surprising how completely a whole range of impressions can

sometimes be conveyed without the use of words. In that moment when
Gregory Picton smiled at her, Cecile knew that she would never again
entirely dislike him—that, though he might remain in essence the ruthless
Counsel for the Prosecution, he would also be the man who had
inexplicably understood that she had to see her mother again in that role on
just that evening.

And, outside the part of her which recognized this link of understanding
between her and Gregory, there was a cool, impersonal awareness that the
elegant girl sitting beside her had noted that smile and been angry because
of it.

Afterwards they were invited backstage. But, without consulting Cecile,

Gregory made their excuses, and she was not sorry for this. The
complications which might have ensued were more than she felt able to
tackle.
 And so goodbyes were said—unexpectedly casual ones between Gregory
and Felicity Waring, Cecile noted—and Gregory escorted her out to the car
once more.

She had thought that on the way home she might have an opportunity to
ask more about Felicity. But almost immediately he switched her mind on
to other matters by enquiring, “How soon do you propose to start your new
arrangement? Sharing a flat with your mother, I mean?”

“As soon as it suits her, I suppose. And as soon as I have the agreement of
the other trustees,” Cecile added conscientiously.

At which, for the first time since she had known him, Gregory Picton
laughed heartily.

“You were not so submissive about my views,” he reminded her.

“I was more doubtful of them,” she admitted candidly. “There won’t be

any opposition from Aunt Josephine, I imagine. And I’m going down to see
Mr. Deeping tomorrow.”

“Is that so?” He looked amused and interested. “Did Carisbrooke arrange
that for you?”

“No. Mr. Deeping’s nephew did.”

 “Maurice Deeping?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“Enough,” said Gregory Picton, in a tone of some reservation.

“We are quite good friends,” Cecile stated firmly, in a way which
forestalled argument. “He was a good friend of my father, too.”

“Who told you that?” enquired her companion with an air of amused
skepticism which she found provocative.

“He did.”

“Well, well,” said Gregory Picton, which had the effect (the intended
effect, she feared, the moment after she had fallen into the trap) of making
her ask sharply:

“What does that mean exactly? Have you anything against him?”

“Only that he is a rather lightweight young man, who would like an easy
living without working for it,” was the reply, as they drew up outside the
hotel.

“You seem to think you are entitled to criticize everyone,” Cecile

exclaimed angrily. “Is there anyone you think highly of, I’d like to know?”
 “Yes, indeed.” He turned in his seat and smiled full at her, rather
wickedly. “I think highly of you.”

“That’s not a very good recovery,” she told him scornfully. “It sounds
pretty feeble and unconvincing, if you want to know.”

“The unadorned truth often does,” he assured her regretfully, his eyes still
sparkling a little dangerously.

“I don’t know why you should think highly of me,” Cecile said flatly.
“I’ve been rude to you, disobeyed you, deflated your ego and generally
behaved not at all as a trustee would want his ward, or whatever she is, to
behave.”

“Perhaps,” he said, still smiling, “that is why you intrigue me.” And,
before she realized what he was going to do, he leaned forward and kissed
her lightly on her lips.

“How dare you?” Cecile could not have said just why that dismayed her.
“Is that the proper way for a trustee to behave?”

“Why, yes, I think it is,” he replied, the faintest drawl in his unrepentant
voice. “Why not? Surely he can adopt an avuncular air towards his ward, if
he wishes?”
 “Avuncular?” She laughed angrily. “Was that an uncle’s kiss that you
handed out to me?”

He laughed a good deal at that.

“I leave you to decide that for yourself, Cecile.” He leaned over to open
the door for her. “But if old Algernon Deeping offers to kiss you tomorrow,
be sure you treat him just as roughly.”

“I don’t think,” Cecile retorted coldly, “that he is likely to presume so

far.” And she got out of the car hastily, because there was something
disturbing about the proximity of that laughing, vivid face.

“No?” He also got out and stood beside her on the pavement, looking
down at her. “Well, perhaps he is past the age when presumption seems
worth even a slap in the face.”

“And you aren’t? For all your talk of uncles?” Her eyes sparkled
dangerously that time.

“At least I took the risk,” he reminded her, still smiling.

“Then you can’t complain of the result,” she replied. And, raising her
hand, she flicked him lightly but sharply on his cheek, before she turned
and ran into the hotel.
 In the doorway, she remembered suddenly that she had not thanked him
for her evening. Not for the dinner, nor the theatre, nor the capitulation
about her mother. And, half remorseful, she turned again to look back at
him.

He was still standing looking after her, his hand against the cheek she had
flicked. For a moment their eyes met—challengingly, as they had in Court
that first morning. Then he smilingly and deliberately kissed his hand to
her, got back into his car and drove away.

Hardly had she come into her room when the telephone bell rang. And,
with the absurd and illogical idea that it might be Gregory, with some
provocative last word to say to her, she snatched up the receiver with
extraordinary eagerness.

But it was her mother’s voice which said, “Is that you, Cecile?”

“Yes! Yes, darling. What is it?”

“I—wondered what happened—during your evening with Gregory

Picton.”

“Oh, he took me to the Savoy and—talked to me. Then we went to the

play, though we were too late for the first act. But we saw you—and you
were splendid.” Cecile spoke as naturally as she could.
 “He talked to you?” It was, Cecile thought, a measure of Laurie’s anxiety
that she did not immediately take up the reference to the play. “What did
he talk about Cecile?”

“About you,” said Cecile quietly. “He told me the—the old story about—
his sister...” She heard her mother catch her breath. “Then he listened quite
patiently to my point of view, and finally decided that he had nothing
against my coming to share your flat with you.”

“What—was that you said? I didn’t quite hear?”

“I said Gregory listened to what I had to say, and then decided that I
could live where I wanted. Which is with you.”

There was a long silence. So long that Cecile said softly, “Are you still
there?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Mother,” she was not going to call her mother Laurie in that
moment, “what is it? Are you crying?”

“No,” her mother said slowly. “I’m not crying. Because I’m not the
crying sort. I’m just remembering. I remember what you were wearing the
day I—left you. It was a little yellow dress, with frills. And though you
wouldn’t think it to look at me now, I made it for you myself, by hand.”
 “Oh—don’t,” Cecile said, “or I shall cry.”

“You smiled at me when I kissed you, and you were so little—and fat—
and unknowing. I remember thinking to myself ‘There won’t be any going
back. This is really goodbye. No one will ever give you a second chance.’
I’ve remembered that, all these years. And now it’s you who have grown
up—and given me a second chance. Oh, it’s so sentimental to talk like this
—”

“No, no, it isn’t!”

“Don’t remind me of it when I see you again. Bu it had to be said.

Goodnight, Cecile.”

“Goodnight, darling,” Cecile said, and the telephone went dead in her
hand.

She replaced the receiver, wiped away a foolish tear or two as she got
undressed, and finally dropped into bed and slept dreamlessly.

The next day Maurice Deeping and she, in his shabby little car, drove out
of London, lingered enjoyably on the way, lunched at a charming old
sixteenth-century inn, and eventually came within sight of Mr. Algernon
Deeping’s handsome estate about three in the afternoon.
 “There you are—” Maurice paused at the top of a hill and pointed down
into the lush, wooded valley, where a large stone house, with a pillared
portico in front, sat squarely among the trees, as though challenging
anyone to dispute its position. “That’s Erriton Hall, where Uncle Algernon
lives. If you can call it living, with the small amount of fun he gets out of
his thousands.”

“Perhaps he enjoys them in his own way,” Cecile suggested.

“Not he! The only pleasure he gets out of his money is the pleasure of
adding to it.”

“It seems a waste,” Cecile agreed. “Who will get it all after he is gone?”

“Ah, there you’re asking.” Maurice made a face, and started the car again.
“He’s capricious, you see, as well as mean. And he does get a sort of
enjoyment out of keeping us all guessing.”

“Well, I’m glad he has some fun,” declared Cecile.

“It’s tough on those of us who’re kept guessing, though,” replied Maurice

with feeling.

“Oh, are you in the running?”

 “In many ways, I suppose I’m the favourite in the field,” Maurice said,
but gloomily. “That isn’t necessarily a good thing, though. In fact, I have a
feeling that, with anything so unpredictable as the Uncle Algernon Stakes,
a rank outsider may well romp home, leaving the favourite at the post.”

“In that case you’d better not count on anything, then you won’t be
disappointed,” suggested Cecile philosophically.

“Of course I’ll be disappointed,” said Maurice rather crossly. “Wouldn’t

anybody be disappointed if they’d even half hoped for a fortune and then
got next to nothing?”

“I don’t know.” Cecile looked reflective. “I didn’t feel too awful when I
found Father had left nearly nothing.”

“When—” Maurice turned to look at her in astonishment, and a dismay

which she thought was excessive, even if kindly meant on her behalf. “Was
that what happened?”

“Yes. I forgot to explain that bit to you. You needn’t look so upset on my
behalf. I don’t mind earning my own living.”

“Don’t you?” said Maurice drily. “But then you’ve never had to do it, up
to now, have you?” And then they arrived at the entrance to Erriton Hall.
 Maurice had telephoned the previous day to give notice of their arrival,
and a severe-looking housekeeper, introduced as Mrs. Frinton, received
them in the very handsome hall.

“Mr. Deeping is waiting to see you,” she said, giving them the impression
that they were late, rather than eagerly looked for, although, in point of
fact, they were ten minutes earlier than the time suggested. “He is in the
small drawing room.”

Then she conducted them to such a large and lofty room that Cecile was
left wondering what the large drawing room could possibly be like.

In a chair by the window, with a rug over his knees, sat a spare, shrunken
little man of quite indeterminable age. His hair was white and his skin
deeply lined, but his eyes were dark and flashing and rather disconcertingly
shrewd.

“Come in,” he said, in a high-pitched, impatient voice, “come in. Don’t

leave the door open. There’s a draught.” And then, as Cecile approached
his chair, he turned those uncomfortably bright eyes upon her.

“So you’re poor Henry Bernardine’s daughter?” He shook his head

gloomily, but whether in sympathy for her father or poor opinion of
herself, Cecile was not quite sure.
 “Yes, I’m Cecile,” she agreed, and she took his dry, old hand in hers, half
amused, half touched by the peculiar old man before her.

“You’re not much like him.” Uncle Algernon shook his head again.
“You’re like your flibbertigibbet of a mother.”

Cecile had never heard anyone referred to as a flibbertigibbet in real life,

and, while she was annoyed at this stricture on her mother, she could not
but be intrigued by the use of the term. Indeed, Uncle Algernon was so
much like someone out of a Victorian novel that she would not have been
greatly surprised if he had addressed Maurice as “Nevvy”.

However, he addressed him as Maurice—in order to enquire disagreeably

why he was not at work.

Maurice explained, with a specially winning smile, about his few days’
leave. But Uncle Algernon seemed to think poorly of this explanation. For,
to Cecile’s immense delight, he said, “Tcha!” adding that Maurice would
never get rich that way. Which seemed to depress Maurice unduly, Cecile
thought.

“Well, sit down, sit down,” the old man said. “So I’m one of your
trustees? The other two won’t be much good to you. There’s Josephine
Coulter, who had no more sense than to marry a hypochondriac. And then
there’s young Gregory Picton, who’s too busy playing the buffoon in the
Law Courts to be much use to you either.”
 “Gregory doesn’t play the buffoon at all,” Cecile said indignantly, as she
recalled the extremely restrained and skillful way he had conducted his
case when she was in Court.

“Well, he gets his name into the headlines of the popular newspapers,”
retorted the old man. “And no one does that without playing the buffoon.”

“I don’t agree with you at all,” stated Cecile pleasantly but firmly. Which
seemed to cause a certain amount of anxiety to Maurice, and a good deal of
astonishment and pleasure to Uncle Algernon.

“You don’t need to,” Uncle Algernon said. “But don’t you go thinking
Gregory Picton is perfect, just because he has a handsome face and a lot of
animal vitality.”

“I don’t think he is perfect at all,” Cecile retorted unequivocally.

“No?” Uncle Algernon gave her a malicious little glance of enquiry.

“Well, a lot of girls do. But none of them have a chance with him, I can tell
you that. The only one who ever did was my great-niece, Felicity Waring.
And she didn’t want him.”
 CHAPTER IV

It said something for Cecile’s self-control that she did not exclaim,
“Felicity Waring? Oh, do tell me about her.”

But she had already taken the measure of Uncle Algernon and was certain
that any direct request for information would be met by clam-like reserve.
So, instead, she said reflectively, “I think I met her last night. She had just
come home from the States. But I didn’t know she was your great-niece.”

“She wouldn’t be wearing a label to that effect,” replied Uncle Algernon

disagreeably, because at this particular moment he wished to be the one
imparting information, not receiving it. Though strictly on his own terms.
“Where did you meet her?” he asked grudgingly.

“At the theatre.”

“So you’ve been running round to plays, as another way of wasting your
time, eh?” Uncle Algernon shot a critical glance at his nephew.

“Not at all. I went with Gregory Picton,” stated Cecile crisply, before
Maurice could reply for himself.
 “You did?” Uncle Algernon’s eyes gleamed afresh. “And he was with you
when you met Felicity?”

“He made the introduction.”

“Well, well.” Uncle Algernon seemed prepared to take immense vicarious

pleasure in the meeting. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” said Cecile, who thought he deserved that, after the nasty way
he had spoken to Maurice.

“What do you mean—nothing?” Uncle Algernon gave her a cross but

incredibly knowing glance. “They spoke to each other, I suppose, didn’t
they?”

“Oh, yes. They seemed rather surprised to see each other. But then she
explained about having just come back from America, and he remarked that
it was quite by chance that we happened to be at the same theatre.”

“Did she believe that?” The old man chuckled.

“I don’t know why she shouldn’t,” Cecile said calmly. “It was the truth. It
was only at the last minute that we decided to go. After the first act was
over.”
 “Oh.” Uncle Algernon seemed rather disappointed about this. And he
added, on principle, “Shocking waste of money, paying for seats and seeing
only half the play.”

“We saw two-thirds of it,” Cecile stated exactly. “And we didn’t pay for
seats, anyway. We were invited into the actor-manager’s box. And Felicity
was there.”

“Just like that?” Uncle Algernon began to cheer up. “Was Gregory very
much taken aback at seeing her?”

“If so, he hid it remarkably well,” replied Cecile. But she remembered in
that moment the half nervous way Lady Lucas’s hand had closed on hers,
as she told Gregory that Felicity was in the box.

At this point, Uncle Algernon slid further down in his chair, rather like a
disgruntled child, and looked aggrieved.

“No one ever tells the old man anything,” he muttered. “They just leave
him to find out for himself. And then they expect him to be pleasant and
leave them all his money.”

“Nonsense,” said Cecile, kindly but briskly—which had the effect of

making him sit up again. “What you really mean is that you would like me
to tell you some malicious gossip about Gregory and your great-niece, so
that the next time you see either of them you can show you know more than
they know themselves, and enjoy their discomfiture.”

“Cecile—” murmured Maurice, in a warning sort of way.

But the old man turned on him angrily.

“You leave her alone. She has some real spirit and doesn’t mind speaking
out. And she’s right too—though her grammar is poor. I do enjoy finding
out about people and showing that I know as much as they do, even though
I’m sitting here in a chair, leading a miserable dull life, with no one to care
whether I live or die, except for getting my money. And why shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” said Cecile mildly. “Except that you won’t make yourself
very popular that way.”

“I don’t want to be popular. I like being unpopular.”

“Well, that simplifies things, anyway.” And Cecile laughed. It was a pretty
laugh. Gay and full of real amusement, and it seemed to shatter the dull
formality of the room into a thousand sparkling fragments.

For a moment Uncle Algernon looked at her in surprise. Then he grinned

back at her, with a sort of malicious good humour.

“I like you,” he remarked.

 “Do you? I think I like you,” Cecile replied candidly. “At least you are not
the slightest bit like anyone else.”

Uncle Algernon looked enormously gratified.

“But,” Cecile went on, “I don’t hold any brief for your snooping into
other people’s affairs, for the sheer pleasure of showing you can find things
out, even when you are sitting here.”

“Now you’re being too bright,” he growled, giving her a more wary look.
“I like you best when you’re amusing and laugh. I don’t want you, or
anyone else, lecturing me.”

“You prefer to do the lecturing yourself, don’t you?” Cecile flashed a

smile at him.

“That’s right.” He grinned again at that, and then said unexpectedly, “I

might leave you some money, if you come down here sometimes and talk to
me.”

“I shall come down sometimes, in any case,” Cecile told him, “but I don’t
want your money for that.”

“Nonsense.” He seemed quite nettled at the idea that she should be

independent of his whims. “Of course you do. Everyone wants money. Why
shouldn’t you want some of mine?”
 “I’m not entitled to it, for one thing,” Cecile said. “You have relations of
your own.”

Uncle Algernon said. “Tcha!” again, with impressive emphasis. “You’re

my ward, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly.” Cecile was becoming quite good at the distinction between
a guardian and a trustee. “You’re a trustee, on my behalf, of an almost non-
existent estate. I don’t think that constitutes much of a claim on my part.”

“Well, if you haven’t much estate, you’ll need money, won’t you?” Uncle
Algernon pointed out triumphantly. “How are you going to get it?”

“Work, of course. Like millions of other people,” Cecile said cheerfully.

“I learned typing and shorthand when I was at finishing school. We all had
to do something practical, as well as the frills. And I have two good
languages and a smattering of another. With a refresher course of some sort,
I don’t think I’ll have much trouble getting some sort of secretarial job.”

“She’s a girl after my own heart,” remarked Uncle Algernon to Maurice.

“You’d better marry her. She’d make a man of you.”

“Thanks.” Maurice pressed his lips together and looked annoyed, as

though he were taking all this too seriously, Cecile could not help thinking.
“But I’ll manage my own affairs, if you don’t mind.”
 “You can’t,” retorted Uncle Algernon. “You aren’t a manager by nature.
She is. She knows what she wants and she goes straight for it, which is
more than you’ll ever do.”

Then, while Maurice looked glum, he turned back to Cecile and said, “If
you’ll ring that bell, you can have some tea. Mrs. Frinton makes good teas.
Not that I can eat anything much, myself,” he added, and shook his head in
gloomy self pity.

“I expect you can, if you have congenial company,” replied Cecile, in her
most bracing tone. But she rang the bell, and presently a maid appeared,
wheeling in a tea-trolley, which looked well laden.

Over tea he made several other unkind remarks to Maurice, who struggled
manfully to remain good-tempered and amiable under what was, obviously,
familiar behaviour. And he made only one more reference to his position as
Cecile’s trustee, and that was to say he hoped she wouldn’t bother him with
too much business. Then, very soon after tea was over, he told them it was
time they were going.

“I have to have a rest before dinner,” he stated firmly. “Doctor’s orders.

But come again soon.” This was addressed exclusively to Cecile. “And find
out what you can about my great-niece and Gregory Picton.”

“I’ll come again soon,” Cecile promised. But on the second point she did
not commit herself before saying goodbye.
 They were seen off the premises by Mrs. Frinton, who looked as though
she might count the teaspoons as soon as they were gone. And, as they
drove away from the house, Cecile turned to Maurice and said, “Is he
always like that?”

“Most times,” replied Maurice gloomily.

“But, Maurice, don’t you think it might be better to stand up to him a

little? He seemed to like that with me.”

“Only because you are a girl—and a novelty.” Maurice seemed depressed.

“Anyway, I can’t afford to take risks. And he knows it.”

“Of course he does. That’s what makes him so cantankerous. Like a

naughty child who knows he has his parents half scared. Give him a back-
answer occasionally and see what happens.”

“Then he’d go and alter his will.”

“So what? He would probably alter it back when he reflected on the

enjoyable novelty of having you stand up to him.”

“Not he! He’d go and die before he could change it back again,” declared
Maurice. “He’s that sort.”
 “Well, he certainly seems cranky enough for anything.” Cecile laughed.
Then she looked curiously at Maurice. “Tell me—do you know anything
about this great-niece of his?”

“Felicity? Yes, of course. She is a sort of cousin of mine. Although I call

him Uncle Algernon, the old man is my great-uncle too, you know. Felicity
is the daughter of my aunt, and really rather a favourite of his.”

“And what,” asked Cecile, with rather elaborate carelessness, “was the
story about her and Gregory Picton?”

“I don’t really know. It was while I was away up north. He acted for her
over something to do with fraud in connection with her late father’s affairs,
and it seems he got very friendly. According to Uncle Algernon, he ran after
her like mad, but she wouldn’t have any of him. Kept him dangling, you
know, just for the fun of showing she had the celebrated Gregory Picton on
a string. She’s a bit like Uncle Algernon, really, now I come to think of it.”

“She sounds like it,” Cecile agreed with feeling. “And then? What
happened after that?”

“Oh, she went off to the States, on some pleasure of her own. She can
afford to—” a note of envy crept into Maurice’s voice—“she belongs to the
wealthy side of the family.”
 “Well, cheer up. She doesn’t look any the happier for that,” declared
Cecile, remembering the faintly discontented line of Felicity’s well-cut
mouth.

“Sorry.” Maurice grinned, and seemed to recover his spirits suddenly.

“Uncle Algernon always has that effect upon me. But I must say you were a
success. It would be rather fun if he ended by leaving you a packet,
wouldn’t it?”

“It would be very embarrassing,” replied Cecile drily.

But Maurice laughed almost as unbelievingly as Uncle Algernon at that.

During the next few days, Cecile’s future began to take more definite
shape. Mr. Carisbrooke summoned her to a further interview, and explained
that, now the financial situation was clearer, it seemed there would be an
income of about two hundred and fifty pounds a year available.

“in addition, of course, there will be the capital value of the house—if you
are able to sell it,” said the cautious Mr. Carisbrooke. “There is also the
small cottage adjoining, which, I understand, used to be a gardener’s
cottage, but is now empty.”

“Yes. That will do for Florrie and Stella—the two elderly maids—” began
Cecile.
 “It will reduce the value of the house and grounds when they go up for
sale,” interrupted Mr. Carisbrooke quickly.

“I can’t help that. They have to live somewhere, don’t they?” Cecile was
firm about that. “They wouldn’t know what to do if we simply gave them
notice. They’re over sixty, both of them, and they were with us for over
twenty years. If they have the cottage and a hundred and fifty a year
between them—”

“My dear Miss Bernardine! that is three-fifths of your income,” cried the
scandalized Mr. Carisbrooke.

“Three-fifths of my unearned income,” Cecile corrected, with a smile.

“I’m going to get a job very soon, Mr. Carisbrooke. Don’t worry about
that.”

“At present you are living expensively at an hotel,” began Mr.

Carisbrooke.

“Soon I am going to live, less expensively, with my mother,” retorted

Cecile good-humouredly.

There was a slight silence. Then Mr. Carisbrooke coughed and said,
“M’yes. I had heard about that. I am surprised that Mr. Picton agreed.”
 “I think he was too.” Cecile smiled slightly. “But we had a long talk about
—about the unhappy affair of his sister, Mr. Carisbrooke. It’s all been such
a mystery, and so fiercely taboo as a subject for so long, that I think he was
surprised to find there could be another viewpoint on it.”

“And can there be another viewpoint on it, Miss Bernardine?” enquired

the solicitor drily.

“Well—yes. I think there can. I’m not going to pretend my mother was
blameless, and I hold no brief for anyone who uses another woman’s
husband to further her own ambition. But why should she be assumed to
have been the driving force in that unhappy affair? From all accounts, he
was a forceful, charming man, well able to get his own way and know his
own mind. Why shouldn’t he have been active on his own behalf, without
much prompting from her?”

Mr. Carisbrooke gave Cecile a long, reflective look, and for a moment he
did not speak. Then he said slowly, “It’s odd you should say that. Picton
said something the same to me in this very office, only yesterday.”

“You mean he made excuses for my mother?” She flushed with the
extraordinary sensation of surprise and joy which swept over her at the
thought that Gregory’s deeply rooted and bitter resentment might be
softening.
 “No. He didn’t go as far as that.” Mr. Carisbrooke smiled thinly. “But he
said, ‘I always took it for granted that Hugh—’ that was the name of the
brother-in-law, Hugh Minniver—‘that Hugh was urged on to his divorce by
Laurie Cavendish. But, suppose that were not so, Carisbrooke,’ he said.
‘Suppose that were not so. It does alter the picture rather.”

“He—he said that?” Cecile bit her lip because it trembled suddenly. “That
was generous of him! Because it must have been difficult for him, after all
these years, even to try to reassess the facts.”

“I think, Miss Bernardine,” Mr. Carisbrooke gave that dry smile again,
“that perhaps you reassessed the facts for him.”

“Well, perhaps.” Cecile smiled in her turn. “But it is true, you know, that
none of us knows, really, how much the husband acted of his own free will,
and how much because of anything that—that Laurie did.”

“When do you propose to start living with your mother, Miss

Bernardine?” enquired Mr. Carisbrooke.

“As soon as it suits her. I’m going to see her today, and I hope to settle it
then,” Cecile explained. “Then I’d better go up north for some days and
settle up things there. Most of the furniture can be sold, and Florrie and
Stella can be told of the new arrangement—”

“If the trustees agree, Miss Bernardine.”

 “Well, make them agree, Mr. Carisbrooke,” Cecile retorted impatiently.
“You’re much cleverer at this sort of thing than I am. I want the house
cleared and put up for sale. I want Florrie and Stella settled in the cottage,
with what furniture they need, and the assurance that they will have their
little pension. The sale of the furniture will give me some ready money, I
suppose, and on that I’ll take a business-training refresher course, and be
ready to face life on my own. That’s all, I think. Except that if and when we
do sell the house, it will give me rather more capital to play about with.”

“To invest, Miss Bernardine,” corrected Mr. Carisbrooke austerely.

“All right. To invest.” Cecile smiled at him. “I’ll do whatever you all want
about that, if I can have my own way over Florrie and Stella.”

Mr. Carisbrooke forbore to point out that she was also having her own
way over her place of residence. And, having promised Cecile that he
would do his best to see that her wishes were met, he bade her a not
unfriendly goodbye.

It was rather late in the afternoon, but Cecile decided there was still time
to go and see her mother. She had not been there since their telephone
conversation about her evening with Gregory, and she wondered, with a
half nervous sort of curiosity, what her mother’s attitude would be.

As Laurie greeted her, however, there was nothing in her manner to

suggest that, she even remembered the quick, half-broken phrases with
which she had recalled the past. And when Cecile explained that she
wanted to know how soon she might come to live in the flat, her mother
said,

“Then you really are coming?”

“Yes, of course. I told you—Gregory agreed. And neither of the other

trustees will want to interfere.”

“No. I suppose not.”

At first, Cecile thought there was not going to be any further talk of what
had happened between herself and Gregory. Then, rather as though she
could not help it, her mother said, “How did you persuade him, Cecile?
Was there a very unpleasant scene?”

“Oh, no! It wasn’t a bit like that. First of all, he told me his version of the
story. About his sister and brother-in-law—and you.”

“Making it all sound pretty sordid, I suppose?”

“No. He made it sound simple and tragic—for all three of you. Naturally
his own point of view was coloured by the fact that he loved his sister. But
that didn’t prevent his listening to what I had to say. In the end, he accepted
the idea—at least, I think he did—that it was not for us to guess how much
this—this Hugh Minniver acted on his own initiative, or how much he was
prompted.”

Her mother stared at her with bleak, speculative eyes, as though the very
name of Hugh Minniver raised ghosts.

“And aren’t you going to ask me which it was?” she asked bitterly.

“No,” Cecile said. “And don’t try to tell me. Probably you can’t even say
yourself, at this date. It’s over, Mother. For good or ill, it has been over for
fifteen or sixteen years. Please, please put a line under the past, and be
happy in the present, with me.”

Laurie was silent for a long moment. Then she said slowly, “I’ve never
believed that one can bury the past. I’ve always supposed that somehow it
works its way to the surface again. But—when you talk in that innocent,
vehement way—I wonder. You are such an extraordinarily hopeful creature,
Cecile. I don’t know why. Your father was not. And neither am I.”

“Perhaps you would have been, in other circumstances.” Cecile put out
her hand and the other woman took it and held it tightly for a moment.

“I am going up north—back home—for about a week,” Cecile said. “I

hope to get things more or less settled in that time, and leave the sale of the
house and the furniture to take its course. After all, I’ll come back. May I
come to you then?”
 “You can come whenever you like,” her mother replied. And perhaps in
token of that, she allowed Cecile to hug and kiss her with eager affection,
before she finally dismissed her, as it was getting near the time for her to go
to the theatre.

When Cecile got back to the hotel, she found to her surprise—and her
unexpected pleasure—that Gregory Picton was waiting for her. He was
sitting in a chair in the lounge, writing, and he did not notice her until she
came right up to him.

“Hello.” He jumped to his feet. “I was just scribbling a note to you. I had
decided you weren’t coming in, after all.”

“I went to see M—Laurie. Did you want to see me about something

special?”

“I dropped in to see Carisbrooke, just after you left, and found he had
forgotten to get your signature to two papers in connection with your
father’s estate. I offered to bring them along!”

“How nice of you.”

“Not at all. It is the business of a trustee to see his ward sometimes,” he

retorted, a little mockingly.

“Oh. Then it is a business visit?”

 “It’s whatever you like to call it, Cecile.” He stood smiling down at her.
And suddenly she remembered her conversation with Mr. Carisbrooke.

“Gregory,” she put out her hand quickly on his arm, “Mr. Carisbrooke told
me that he had a talk with you yesterday. He repeated something you said.
And it seemed that, for the first time, you questioned the certainty of—of
Laurie’s complete guilt. Was this so?”

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I can only tell you that, for the first time,
I did not want to reject the idea that there might be extenuating
circumstances.”

“Oh, Gregory,” she came quite close to him, “why was that?”

“Why do you suppose, my sweet child?” He looked down at her, half

mockingly, half tenderly. “Because you are a good, loyal, courageous
fighter in an almost lost cause, of course. And if ever I had to stand at the
bar of public opinion for judgment,” he put his arm around her, “I wouldn’t
ask for a better Counsel for the Defence. Now, are you going to sign these
papers?”

“Y-yes, of course.” She was aware that his arm tightened round her for a
moment before he let her go. Then, in a brisk and businesslike manner, he
produced the necessary papers and handed her his own fountain-pen.
 “Here, and here.” He indicated the places for her signature as officially as
Mr. Carisbrooke might have done, and Cecile signed, a little unsteadily.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. That’s fine.” He was screwing back the top on his fountain-pen,
with some deliberation. “I hear you are going up north in the next day or
two.”

“Yes. I hope to get at least the preliminaries settled for the disposal of the
house and furniture. Mr. Carisbrooke will tell you about the way I would
like things arranged.”

“I know. You want to give away rather more than half your unearned
income.” He was his smiling, half-mocking self again. “Don’t actually sign
anything without consulting us first. That’s all I ask.”

And then he bade her goodbye and went away.

Cecile did not see him again before she went north two days later. And of
Maurice too she saw a good deal less, since he had already started in his
new job.

There were not very many people travelling on the morning she left. And,
having arrived at the station in good time, she had no difficulty in securing
a corner seat. She sat watching the other would-be passengers hurrying
along the platform as departure time drew near, and, five minutes before the
train was due to leave, she suddenly saw a familiar figure pass the window.

Even as she recognized Felicity Waring, the other girl glanced back, saw
her, hesitated a moment, and then, as though suddenly making up her mind,
she came back and entered Cecile’s compartment.

“Hello.” She tossed her small, but expensive-looking case on the rack.
“How far are you going?”

“To York, where I change on to a branch line,” Cecile explained.

Felicity, it seemed, was going no further than Peterborough. But, even so,
Cecile rather wondered what they would talk about for an hour and a half.
And she also wondered why Felicity had sought her company when she
could just as easily have smiled and passed on.

A few minutes later the train started and, for lack of anything else to say,
Cecile began to tell Felicity of her visit to Uncle Algernon and her
discovery that the other girl was his great-niece.

“Oh—you know Uncle Algernon?” For the first time, Cecile saw a smile
of real amusement on Felicity’s face. “He’s an extraordinary old fellow,
isn’t he? And you say he is one of your trustees?”

“One of them,” Cecile amended. “I have three.”

 “Good heavens, what a bore!”

“It is rather. Or perhaps I should say, I was afraid it was going to be. But
things seem to be working out more or less as I want them now.”

Felicity gave her an odd, not very friendly little glance at that and said,
“How do you get on with Greg?”

“Quite well,” said Cecile sedately, ignoring earlier storms in favour of the
better understanding they now seemed to have reached.

“He’s not exactly an easy person.” The other girl smiled, with an
aggravating assumption of superior knowledge. “But then I think that early
tragedy rather—hardened him.” And then, as Cecile was silent, “Did you
know about that?”

“I—knew there was a tragedy in his family,” admitted Cecile, dismayed to

find herself involved in this discussion.

“His sister, whom he adored, took an overdose of sleeping tablets, you

know, because her husband wanted to go off with another woman.”

“It—it wasn’t certain that she did it on purpose.”

“Oh, there wasn’t much doubt about it.” Felicity shrugged. “Though I
believe there was an open verdict. But everyone knew that this other
woman had been hounding the husband to get a divorce.”

“It was not known for certain that she used any pressure at all.”

“Indeed it was!” Felicity laughed scornfully at the idea of Cecile actually

querying her information. “And, in any case, I had the oddest confirmation
of it myself, less than a year ago.”

“Con-confirmation?” stammered Cecile. “How could you?”

“I’ll tell you.” Felicity leaned forward, her eyes alight with interest, her
expression curiously like that of Uncle Algernon. “It was the most
extraordinary thing. Gregory’s brother-in-law—he was called Hugh
Minniver—emigrated to the States, as soon as the whole miserable business
was over, and no one here ever heard any more about him, as far as I know.
Well, when I was over there—sometime last summer—I went to stay with
some friends in a small place in New England. A Hugh Minniver, who had
lived in the place for about a dozen years, had died a few months before,
and his home was being sold by auction—”

“You couldn’t know it was the same one,” Cecile interrupted quickly,
“even though the name is unusual.”

“Wait a minute. I was curious and I went to the sale, and among the things
there was a writing desk which I took a fancy to. Seventeenth-century
English and in very good condition. I bought it—not for any connection
with Hugh Minniver, but because I liked the desk. But when I got it back to
my friend’s house, I went over it carefully. I know something about old
furniture, and after a while I found there was a secret drawer. And what do
you suppose was in that drawer?”

“I—I don’t know.” Cecile’s eyes were wide and frightened, and she
literally drew back from the girl sitting opposite her.

“There was a bundle of letters, all signed with an ‘L’—the initial of the
woman in the case. I suppose she must have meant a lot to him, in spite of
what had happened, for he had kept them all those years.”

“Did you destroy them?” Cecile asked huskily.

“No, of course not. I read them. And there wasn’t much doubt of the
pressure she employed. She holds a pistol to his head on every page.”

“But—after you had read them—surely you destroyed them then?”

“No,” Felicity retorted carelessly. “I thought Gregory would be interested.

But I haven’t had an opportunity to show them to him yet.”
 CHAPTER V

“You mustn’t show Gregory those letters!”

Cecile had no idea of the sharp terror in her voice until she saw the other
girl staring at her in, astonishment.

“Why not?” Felicity spoke coldly. “What is it to you if I show Gregory

letters—or anything else, come to that?”

“N-nothing, of course,” stammered Cecile, placatory in her desperation.

“Only—don’t you see?—you will awaken all that old bitterness and
unhappiness. He has managed to outlive the past. You can’t cause anything
but misery by raking up these wretched events again.”

“Really,” Felicity laughed scornfully, “I think you must allow that I know
Gregory a great deal better than you do. And I don’t need to be told how to
act toward him. As a matter of fact, there is no question of awakening any
past bitterness. It is all still there.”

“No, it isn’t! Recently it has become less.”

 “Recently?” There was no mistaking the hostility in the other girl’s voice
now. “What should have happened to Gregory recently to make him feel
differently about anything?”

“I can’t explain. But—don’t show him those letters. You will only cause a
great deal of unhappiness.”

“To Greg?” Felicity shook her head contemptuously. “Don’t you believe
it. In a way, he will be almost glad. He was fond of his brother-in-law, and I
think he has always tried to believe that he acted under pressure and was
less to blame than one might suppose. He’ll be glad to find he was right.”

“How can old letters prove anything now? Alone, and out of their period
and context, they may give a subtly wrong impression. It isn’t fair to do
that!” Cecile cried.

“Of course it is.” Felicity laughed scornfully. “What is all the fuss about,
anyway? If these letters help Gregory to think a little better of his brother-
in-law—”

“At the expense of someone else,” Cecile put in quickly.

“Who cares?” Felicity shrugged. “She has passed out of the picture.”

“Gregory would care,” Cecile retorted, with cold conviction. “He is a just
man, and he wouldn’t want to be led on the wrong track—again.”
 “No one is going to lead him on the wrong track, you extraordinary girl.
These letters speak for themselves, I tell you,” Felicity said impatiently.

“But they can’t tell the whole story. It’s just—just brutal to tear them out
of the past and—and highlight them. They can’t fail to give a false
impression. I beg you to destroy them.” Cecile clasped her hands together
in the intensity of her feeling. “You will only do harm by showing them to
anyone. The woman who wrote them is still alive, even if Hugh Minniver is
dead.”

“Yes, of course. I know. She is a well-known actress. Everyone in the

Minniver set knew who she was. I have heard my mother speak of her
often. As a matter of fact, she was in the play we both saw the other night.”

“I know,” said Cecile dully. “She is my mother.”

“Your—mother?” Felicity gasped and put her hand to her lips. And Cecile
saw that this was indeed news to the other girl, although until that moment
she had thought it possible that Felicity knew the whole story and was
merely playing a sort of cat-and-mouse act with her.

There was silence for a whole minute, except for the rumbling of the train
wheels. Then Felicity said, though without friendliness, “I understand why
you didn’t want Greg to see those letters.”
 “Yes.” Cecile pushed back her hair wearily. “I didn’t want to use that
argument too. Because, of course, I am nothing to you and there’s no reason
why you should study my feelings—except for common decency.”

Felicity pressed her lips together, and Cecile greatly feared that common
decency did not mean very much to the other girl, if her own interests or
her own malicious wishes were involved.

“What an extraordinary thing that Greg should be made one of your

trustees—with that between you,” Felicity said at last.

“No, not really, I am afraid my father thought very badly of my mother,

and, in selecting the trustees to look after me when he had gone, he chose
the one man he knew would not encourage me to see anything of her.”

“And—have you seen her?” Felicity looked curious.

“Yes. Of course. I’m going to share a flat with her when I return to
London from settling up my home in the north.”

“With the agreement of the trustees?” Felicity asked, staring at her.

“Yes.”

“How did you make Greg agree to that?” The other girl narrowed her eyes
slightly.
 “I tell you—his bitterness is less than it was. He seems anxious to take as
objective a view as possible. He withdrew any opposition he had. That is
one reason why it would make things so miserable for me, as well as my
mother, if the whole wretched business were to be dragged out of the past
again.”

“I see.”

But Felicity did not offer any easy reassurances. She sat there silent,
opposite Cecile, evidently turning over the situation in her mind and
looking at it, Cecile felt sure, entirely from her own point of view.

At last Felicity stirred and said, “Well, I certainly won’t show them to him
until I’ve thought it all over. I promise you that.”

“But—won’t you please destroy them?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Cecile pressed, though she hated herself for sounding so
much as though she were pleading.

“Because I never believe in destroying anything which might one day be

useful,” replied the other coolly.
 “Useful?” Cecile stared at her aghast, and Felicity had the grace to flush.
“Useful? How could they possibly be useful to you?”

“I don’t know,” said Felicity, unmoved. “Not at the moment, at any rate.
But one never knows. Sometimes these things acquire a certain value, as
circumstances alter.”

“Do you mean a sort of blackmailing value?” asked Cecile, coldly and
incredulously.

“No, of course not.” Felicity laughed angrily. “They just might be—
useful.”

Inevitably, the rest of their shared journey was uncomfortable. And Cecile
had never been more glad to see any place than she was to see
Peterborough.

It was early evening when she finally arrived back at her old home, to be
warmly welcomed by Florrie and Stella, whose austere elderly
countenances relaxed unbelievably at the sight of her.

“Eh, it’s been quiet without you, Miss Cecile,” declared Florrie, as she
proceeded to set a large and appetizing “high tea” before Cecile. “Not that
you were ever one for noise, like some of today’s rubbish, with their jazz
and their junketings. But this is a big house for two old folk to be alone in.”
 “I’m sure it is.” Cecile smiled. “But I had to go and see about the new
arrangements, you know.”

“Yes, naturally.” Florrie looked anxious. And at this moment Stella found
some excuse to insinuate herself into the room. “Are there going to be big
changes, Miss Cecile?”

“There are bound to be.” Cecile was frank about that. “But if you will
both sit down, I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”

She felt sure Mr. Carisbrooke, and possibly Gregory too, would have
deplored her “committing” herself, as Mr. Carisbrooke would have said, at
this early stage. But she was not going to have her two faithful old servants
worrying about their future an hour longer than was strictly necessary.

And so, while Florrie and Stella sat on the edge of their chairs—for they
belonged to a vanishing race who thought it unbecoming to their own
dignity to sit comfortably in the presence of their employer—Cecile
outlined her scheme for their future.

“You mean, have the cottage and a pension for doing nothing, Miss
Cecile?” said Florrie at last.

“No, not for nothing,” Cecile corrected firmly. “For years of faithful
service to my father and to me.”
 At this, both of them produced large, clean pocket-handkerchiefs.

“It won’t be an awful lot,” she explained hastily. “Certainly not enough to
shed tears about. But I hope that with your old age pensions and the garden,
where you can grow things, and so on, it won’t be too difficult.”

“You’ll be selling the house, then, Miss Cecile?” Stella returned her
handkerchief to her pocket first.

“Yes. I couldn’t possibly keep up a place like this.”

“No. Florrie and me were saying the very same thing. ‘Miss Cecile will be
going away to London, you’ll see,’ I said. ‘This is no place for a young girl
on her own,’ I said.”

“But I’ll come back and see you both sometimes,” Cecile promised, with
a smile.

“Whereabouts in London will you be going, Miss Cecile?” enquired

Florrie, who thought poorly of the capital, having gone there once on a day
trip and, owing to train complications, seen little but the Euston Road.

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then Cecile said, “I shall be going to

live with my mother, in a flat near Hyde Park.”
 “Your mother, Miss Cecile?” they echoed in chorus, and they exchanged a
glance of something like consternation.

“Yes. I—I met her again.” Cecile tried to make that sound as natural as
possible. “We—liked each other. And I am going to live with her.”

Again there was silence. Then Florrie said slowly.

“I liked her too. I was real sorry when she went away.”

“Oh, Florrie—” Cecile gazed at the elderly maid, as though she would
somehow see, through the eyes of the older woman, the Laurie whom she
remembered. “Were you, really? Do you remember her well?”

“Yes, Miss Cecile, Better than Stella will.” Florrie could not resist this
claim to superior knowledge. “Because I was here when your mother came
as a bride. Such a pretty girl, she was, and very gay. Gayer than you, but
very like you.”

“I’ll tell Mother that you remember her—like that,” Cecile said. “She will
like to hear it.”

“You might give her my respects too, Miss Cecile,” added Stella, in an
offended sort of way. “I remember her very well, too, even if I did come
three years later than Florrie.”
 “I will,” Cecile promised. “I will.” And professional pride appeared to be
satisfied by this.

She stayed over a week, in the end, sorting and packing and arranging.
Fortunately, her father had always been the neatest and most orderly of
men, so the task was not as formidable as it had at first appeared. And she
kept in close contact with Mr. Carisbrooke, both by letter and, once or
twice, by telephone—which Florrie considered ruinously extravagant, and
Stella rather dashing.

At last, however, everything which required her personal attention had

been looked after, and she felt justified in leaving the rest in the hands of
the very capable house agent and auctioneer whom Mr. Carisbrooke had
recommended.

Cecile returned to London with the cheering conviction that this part of
her life, at least, promised few complications.

But, as she neared London once more, the anxiety which she had
contrived to crowd into the background of her mind during the past week
began to take possession of her again, and the menace of Felicity, and her
damaging knowledge, hovered threateningly in the background.

If only those letters had never been found!

 Without them, life with Laurie had begun to promise well, for Cecile had
felt certain that it was in her power to be a real help and pleasure to her
mother. After years of being virtually an outcast from her family, Laurie
was going to have an affectionate daughter for company. Something which
could not fail to make her see life in warmer, softer tones.

And all this was to be accomplished without opposition from Gregory,

after all. A major victory had been won there. And, suddenly, Cecile
realized how very much that meant to her. She had been prepared to fight
Gregory, or anyone else, for the chance of making her mother happy. But
how very good it had been to find that, after all, they were on friendly terms
—that she had not to regard him as a permanent source of opposition.

“It was that moment in the theatre box which first gave me the idea that
he might be a friend, instead of an enemy,” she thought reminiscently. “And
then—one couldn’t be indifferent to his generous effort to be objective,
after all these years. He is generous. It could all be so happy and hopeful, if
only Felicity had not found those miserable letters.”

And Felicity, of all people!

Even without knowing her well, Cecile knew instinctively that she was
cold and at least a little unscrupulous. That meant that she would be quite
unpredictable, because one would never know what she might decide to do
in what she considered to be her best interests.
 “It’s a sort of jealousy, I believe,” Cecile told herself, in puzzled
realization. “She actually resents the idea that I am, in some way, Gregory’s
responsibility. It’s ridiculous, but it is a fact. Though why I don’t know. She
had the chance of his whole heart’s devotion, it seems, and she chose to
reject it. Why be jealous of my small position now?”

Cecile had not found the answer to this by the time she reached London.
But, as though her very thoughts might have conjured him up, Gregory was
almost the first person she saw as she stepped out on to the platform.

She recognized his tall figure with a degree of pleasure which surprised
herself. And as his glance lighted on her, she smiled and waved, with the
odd feeling that home was here, just as much as in the north, where she had
lived all her life.

“Hello! What are you doing at King’s Cross at just this hour?” she asked,
as he came up to her.

“Meeting you, of course.” He took her case from her, and put his arm
round her to shield her from the crowd. “What else?”

“You mean—you came on purpose to meet me?" She stopped and looked
up at him, while the crowds eddied round them, and for a strange moment it
seemed to her that they stood alone—an entirely complete and self-
contained unit.
 “Most certainly. Is it so surprising?”

“Yes, I think it is. How did you know I was coming today, and by this
train, for one thing?”

“I found out from Carisbrooke.”

“You did?” There was a note of pleased surprise in her tone. And then
suddenly this was succeeded by anxiety, and she asked quickly, “For any
special reason, Gregory? Has—has anything happened?”

“No, of course not, you funny child. What should have happened? Except
that perhaps I missed my ward a little while she was away.”

“Oh—Gregory—” She laughed, and she could have kissed him in her
relief, and for the strange pleasure it gave her to have someone personally
concerned about her. It had never happened to her before. Her father had
hardly ever noticed if she came or went.

She watched while he found a porter—seemingly without difficulty—and

presently all her luggage was collected and wheeled away to Gregory’s
waiting car.

“It’s wonderful having a trustee, after all!” she thought, as she relaxed
beside Gregory in the front seat of the car. And irrepressibly she gave a
happy little laugh, which made him glance at her questioningly as they
drove slowly out of the station. “Glad to be back?” he enquired.

“Why, yes; I think I am. But it wasn’t quite that.”

“What then?” he pressed, with real curiosity.

“Oh, it’s difficult to say. Do you always look after people so charmingly?”

“Was I being specially charming?”

“I thought so. I don’t remember ever having had anyone meet me and
make a fuss of me before. And suddenly I thought—” she flashed him a
smile of something like friendly capitulation—“that perhaps it is rather fun
to have a trustee, after all.”

To her surprise, he actually flushed slightly, and for once there was no
trace of mockery in his voice or manner as he said, “Is it, my dear? I’m
very glad, if that is how it strikes you. Though why so small an attention
should mean so much, I just don’t know. Now where do you want me to
drive you?”

She hesitated just for a second. Then she said, “Oh—home, please,” and
gave him an anxious little glance. “To—to Laurie’s place. She is expecting
me.”
 “Very well.” He made no objection. Though he added, “Perhaps it was
selfish of me to hope to have you on your first evening. But can we make a
date for one evening soon?”

“Why, of course. But, if you want it, I suppose it could be this evening,
really.” All at once, the prospect was extraordinarily attractive. “Laurie will
be going to the theatre, and, if you’d like to come back—or,” she hesitated,
“would you care to come up with me now and—and have a drink?”

“How would that strike Laurie?”

“I don’t know,” said Cecile frankly, and they were both silent for a short
space.

Then he said, “Suppose I bring up your luggage, instead of leaving it all

for the porter. Then we can see what my reception is.”

The door of her mother’s flat stood open, and in the doorway was Laurie,
waiting for her. For the first time, there was a happy, welcoming smile upon
her face, and she actually held out her arms to Cecile.

“Welcome home, darling!”

“Oh, Mother!—Laurie, I mean—” Cecile rushed into her arms and

hugged her rapturously—“how wonderful to be welcomed like this. I’m so
happy to be here. And please, dear, don’t mind, but Gregory is bringing up
the luggage. And be nice to him, because he’s trying very hard to be
friendly too. He met me at the station and drove me here in his car. And he
wants to take me out this evening. It’s all a sort of—of olive branch,
Mother. Please, please don’t reject it, will you?”

As this eager speech was poured out, Cecile saw a good many varied
emotions chase each other across her mother’s face. But the final one was a
sort of amused acceptance.

“I have not had so many olive branches waved at me that I can afford to
reject one,” she said a trifle drily. But she kissed Cecile and added, “I’ll be
nice to him, as you say, if he means so much to you.”

In the end, the meeting between the two protagonists was strangely
without drama. They had not, Cecile supposed, met for many years. But, as
Laurie held out her hand and said, “How do you do? Thank you for looking
after Cecile so well,” she might have been any mother welcoming the
escort of any daughter.

“It was a pleasure. For which Cecile has already thanked me too much.
Where would you like me to put these things?”

“In the end room. Cecile, show Mr. Picton the way.” Laurie turned back
towards the sitting room, and then glanced over her shoulder to ask, with an
admirably casual air, “Will you stay and have a drink?”
 Again there was that infinitesimal pause, while Cecile tried feverishly to
remember if drinking with your enemy had the same significance as
breaking bread with him.

Then Gregory said, “Thank you. But if Cecile and you want some time to
yourselves, don’t mind telling me to go.”

“No, no. That’s all right. I have to go to the theatre in less than an hour
anyway, and I understand you are taking Cecile out this evening. Please
stay and have a drink.”

Cecile did not know that her own smile had a strained quality until
Gregory said quietly to her, “Don’t look so anxious. I’m staying. Now
where is the room you are to show me?”

“Oh—” She released her pent-up breath in a great gasp of relief, and
joyfully ran on ahead of him to show the way to her room.

“So this is to be your room?” He set down the bags and looked round
consideringly.

“Yes. It’s pretty, isn’t it?” She saw for herself that Laurie had added some
personal touches in her absence, which had changed an impersonal guest
room into a room which might well belong to the daughter of the house.
 “It’s very nice,” he agreed. And unexpectedly he bent and lightly kissed
her upturned face. “I hope you will be very happy in it.”

“Oh—” She laughed and, to her surprise, returned the kiss, before she
realized what she was doing. “I shall be, I’m sure. It's so lovely not to have
a—a sort of perpetual strife going on any more.”

He did not comment on that. Perhaps it surprised so positive a man as

Gregory Picton to realize that he had been at least partially responsible for
the strife which had spoiled her happiness.

At any rate, when they both went into the sitting room to rejoin Laurie, he
made a real effort, Cecile saw, to exert his considerable charm to make the
interview an easy one.

Laurie, too, had never been more charming and amusing, at least in
Cecile’s knowledge of her. And, as she played her part of the worldly but
by no means unsympathetic mother, Cecile saw exactly what Florrie had
meant when she had said that Laurie had once been gay.

“That is how she ought to be,” thought Cecile. “That is how she shall be
in future.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. And, as Laurie was in the middle of an
amusing story about the current Lucas Manning play, she said, “See who
that is, will you, Cecile?”
 Cecile went and pressed the lever which opened the street door. Then,
opening the door of the flat, she went out on to the landing to await
whoever was coming up. She supposed it would be a late tradesman—or
possibly someone who had come to fetch her mother to the theatre.

She had met none of Laurie's personal friends yet. But this might be one
of them, she supposed, and interestedly she leaned over the banisters, and
looked down the well of the staircase.

As she did so, she was conscious of a shock which literally hurt. For the
girl who was mounting the stairs, lightly but determinedly, was Felicity
Waring.
 CHAPTER VI

For a moment Cecile could not move. Her leaden feet seemed to hold her
motionless, and she could only stare, in a sort of nightmare fascination, at
the smooth, bent head of the girl who was mounting the stairs.

Then suddenly the acuteness of the danger—the awareness that neither of

the people in the flat behind her must see Felicity—galvanized her into
action. She wrenched herself away from the banister and ran rapidly down
the stairs, determined at all costs to prevent what could only be a disastrous
scene of revelation.

The girls met on the lower landing, wordless and wide-eyed; Felicity in
that moment almost as taken aback as Cecile, who was evidently the last
person she had expected to see.

“What are you doing here?” It was Cecile who found her voice first, and
though she spoke in little more than a whisper, her tone carried the
sharpness of a hiss.

“That’s my business.” Though put out, Felicity made an effort to recover

herself.
 “It’s my business too.” Cecile stood in her path. “You were coming to see
Laurie—to see my mother—weren’t you? You thought she would be alone,
and you wanted to tell her you had those miserable letters.”

“Perhaps.” Felicity had taken the measure of the situation more

thoroughly now, and her tone was faintly insolent.

“She is not to know about them—any more than Gregory.” Cecile said
fiercely. “I suppose you saw his car outside and thought this was the
moment for making the most trouble?”

“Gregory?” Felicity fell back a step, and it was obvious, even to the
agitated Cecile, that Gregory’s presence was news to Felicity. And not
specially welcome news, at that. “No, I didn’t see his car. I wouldn’t know
his present-day car, anyway. But you say he is up there now.” She glanced
upwards to the open door of the flat. “Why?”

“He brought me home from the station, and stayed for a drink. And you’re
not going up there now. Not if I have to—to throw you out myself.”

“I don’t want to go up if he is there,” was the somewhat unexpected reply.

“I’ll come another time.” And Felicity turned to go.

“You’re not to come back any time!” In her anger and fright Cecile caught
the other girl by the arm. But Felicity shook her off impatiently. And at that
moment Laurie came out on to the upper landing and looked down the well
of the stairs.

“Cecile, what is it? Is something wrong?”

Both girls looked up. But it was Cecile who spoke, with ice-cold calm and
determination.

“It’s all right, Laurie. Someone mistook the number, and I was
explaining.” Then she turned back to Felicity and said, in a tense little
whisper, “Go. And don’t you dare to come here again without speaking to
me first.”

Rather to her surprise, Felicity turned without another word, and ran down
the stairs to the street door. Laurie had already gone back into the flat
above, and slowly, with a strange sense of exhaustion impossible to
identify, Cecile mounted the upper flight of stairs once more.

For a moment, at the top of the stairs, she leaned against the wall and shut
her eyes.

She was deadly frightened, and she was alone in her fear. Over almost
anything else she could have consulted Gregory and left him to deal with
the problem. She realized that now. That was what a trustee was for. At
least, the kind of trustee that Gregory was. But in this she could not appeal
to him. He was the last person who must know.
 She could not even confide in Laurie. For Laurie must be protected from
the knowledge of her danger, just as Gregory must be kept from knowing
the proof of her guilt.

As she re-entered the flat her mother was pouring out another glass of
sherry, and Gregory was standing by the window, leaning negligently
against the side of it, as though he were very much at home in the place.
That at least was something, Cecile thought. And she managed to smile
across at him.

“You were such a long time”—Laurie looked up—“I thought something

was wrong.”

“No. It was nothing, I had—there was some difficulty in understanding

what she wanted at first. We were talking at cross-purposes. She wanted
quite a different house.”

“But you ironed things out in the end?” That was Gregory, casual in his
remark, but looking at her—or so it seemed to Cecile’s nervous fancy—
with curious attention.

“Oh, yes.”

“You’re pale, darling,” her mother said at that moment. “Are you tired?”
 “No, no. Not at all.” Cecile forced herself to smile again. “I had quite a
restful journey, really.”

“Well, don’t keep her out too late this evening.” Laurie turned to Gregory
and spoke as though Cecile had been her loving concern for years. Then she
glanced at the clock.

“Heavens, is that the time? I must go. I’m late already.”

“But you don’t come in until the second act,” Cecile said.

“I understudy Selma in the first act, though, and I have to be on call.”

“Don’t worry. I have my car here, and I’ll run you down to the theatre,”
Gregory offered.

“Will you really? Thank you so much. It’s always so difficult to get hold
of a taxi at this time in the evening.”

“That will give me time to change and be ready by the time you come
back,” Cecile said, well pleased with the arrangement.

And when she saw her mother and Gregory leave the flat together five
minutes later, she tried to tell herself that their apparently amiable attitude
made up for the terrible fright which Felicity had given her.
 It was not true, of course. The two things really had no relation to each
other. And, as soon as she was alone, Cecile felt her courage and her spirits
sag. For a few moments she stood quite still in the middle of the room, her
hands pressed to her eyes, as though she would literally shut out the
recollection of that terrifying picture of Felicity mounting the stairs.

The telephone bell rang sharply. And because every fresh sound seemed to
carry a possible menace now, Cecile’s heart was beating hard as she picked
up the receiver.

“Yes?” she said, sharply and anxiously. “Who is it?”

“Cecile, is that you?” replied Maurice Deeping’s voice. “It doesn’t sound
like you, somehow.”

“Maurice!” Her voice expressed all the pleasure and relief she felt. “How
nice! Yes, of course this is Cecile. I arrived back from the north only a few
hours ago. How delightful of you to ring the very first evening.”

“Well, of course I did. Is there any chance of seeing you tonight?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve already promised to go out with Gregory Picton. But
—another evening soon. Tell me, how is the new job going?”

“Like most other jobs. Up and down. Bearable only because one has to
earn a living somehow.” But he laughed. “How were things in the old
home?”

“Oh, all right, thank you. Everything is more or less settled, so far as my
part is concerned. It was quite—enjoyable.” Suddenly she recalled the
journey up, and the unpleasant encounter which had spoiled it and over-
shadowed everything since.

“Some fly in the ointment?” Maurice was quick to recognize the change
in her tone. “Are the trustees being tiresome again?”

“No, no. Very co-operative, on the whole. It’s just—” She hesitated, for
the impulse had come to her to tell Maurice—so safely removed from all
this—something of her worry. Not exactly to confide in him. But to share
something of her heavy burden of knowledge. “Maurice, do you know
Felicity really well?”

“Know her well? Of course I do. She’s my cousin. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yes, yes. I didn’t mean socially or in the family sense." Cecile hesitated
again, moistened her unexpectedly dry lips with the tip of her tongue, and
then went on, “Would you say that you knew her well as a person—knew
the real Felicity?”

“Possibly. What is this? A new form of quiz?”

 “Oh, no. I had a—a rather disagreeable encounter with her. It worried me.
And I thought, as you knew her well—Maurice, is she a very unscrupulous
sort of person?”

There was a slight silence, but whether of surprise or consideration,

Cecile could not decide. Then he said, “She could be, I think—yes. She is
ruthless where her own wishes are concerned. I suppose that amounts to
much the same thing. Does that answer your question?”

“Y-yes. I think it does.”

“Satisfactorily?”

“Not really, no. She—she knows something about Laurie. She could make
a lot of trouble by telling—people. I’m frightened in case she does.”

“She won’t, unless it’s specifically to her own advantage.” Maurice was
unexpectedly reassuring about that. “She isn’t a mischief-maker for the
sake of being one, if you know what I mean. But if it were to her advantage
to speak, I don’t think any finer feelings would hold her back.”

“I don’t think it could be to her advantage at all,” Cecile said doubtfully.

“Then she won’t do it. That’s my guess.”

 “And yet—she was coming here to see Laurie, in the belief that I was still
away. I only just stopped her, less than an hour ago.”

“It’s all a bit confusing. Could you be a little more specific?” Maurice
said. “Or shall we wait until we meet?”

“No, no!” Cecile so desperately wanted some reassurance now, this very
moment, that she had to go on. “I’d like to tell you now. Maurice, Felicity
has found some letters—by some strange, horrible coincidence—which
reflect very badly on Laurie. I asked her to destroy them, but she refused,
saying they might be useful sometime. We parted before I could press her
further and I went north. When I came back today, almost the first thing
that happened was that I found her coming to see Laurie. Why?”

“To tell her she has these letters, I suppose.”

“Yes. Of course. But what good could that do Felicity?”

“I suppose,” Maurice said slowly, “it could demonstrate to your mother

that Felicity had a powerful weapon of persuasion, if she ever wanted
Laurie to do something—or take up some special attitude.”

“But what could she want Laurie to do?”

“You tell me,” replied Maurice with a slight laugh. “I don’t know the
situation well enough to say. Something in connection with you, I’d say.
She wanted Laurie to influence you in some way, perhaps.”

“It sounds so improbable.”

“Life is improbable,” replied Maurice glumly.

“I have so little to do with her, really, Maurice. With Felicity, I mean.

Where do our paths cross? What have we got in common?”

“You have Gregory Picton in common,” replied Maurice, half facetiously.

And suddenly Cecile saw the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. “Yes,”
she said slowly. “We have Gregory in common. Perhaps that’s it.”

“You sound serious!”

“I was just—thinking.” Cecile choked back any expression of the

thoughts which suddenly crowded in.

“Well, thank you, Maurice,” she managed to say, in an artificially cheerful

manner. “You’ve helped me a lot, and I’ll try to piece it all together later
tonight, when I have time to think it over. Maybe I’m worrying
unnecessarily. Anyway, I feel much better for having talked to you.”

“My dear girl, I’m very glad.” Maurice sounded gratified. “Why don’t
you let me drive you down to Uncle Algernon’s at the weekend? He’d be
glad to see you. And Felicity will be staying there. You could have it out
with her then, if you think candour might be a good weapon at this stage.”

“Do you know—” said Cecile slowly, “I think that’s a good idea.” She
hated the thought of tackling Felicity yet again. But if a showdown had to
come, perhaps the sooner the better.

“Shall we make it a date?”

“Yes. On Saturday. Laurie will have both a matinee and an evening

performance that day, and she won’t need me. Oh, thank you, Maurice. It’s
a date!”

“Don’t thank me, dear girl. The pleasure is on my side. For I shall expect
you to talk to me as well as Felicity.”

“I promise.” Cecile laughed in her relief at the thought of Maurice’s

cheering presence. And then, having made arrangements to fetch her on
Saturday, Maurice finally rang off.

By now there was no time left for sitting and thinking, if she intended to
be ready when Gregory returned. So Cecile hurried into her own room,
unpacked a few necessities, and changed rapidly into her black taffeta
frock.
 They had Gregory in common, she and Felicity. That was the answer.
Somewhere at the bottom of this tangle was the jealousy which Felicity felt
because Cecile was now Gregory’s concern.

She might have rejected him once, but now she wanted him back.
Whether from pride or genuine affection one could not say. She wanted him
back. And, rightly or wrongly, she thought Cecile threatened her plans.

“She thinks he likes me and I like him,” thought Cecile. “And who am I to
say she is wrong?” She gave a half-defiant, half-excited little laugh, which
surprised herself. And for a moment she sat down on the side of the bed,
and stared consideringly at herself in the mirror opposite.

She saw there a wide-eyed, faintly flushed girl whose very red lips were
parted in an oddly startled smile.

“Well, Felicity is the one who claims she knows and understands him! As
the jealous onlooker, maybe she’s seen more than I have. It doesn’t matter,
really, but—”

Half laughing still, Cecile leaned forward suddenly and drew out a
marguerite from the little vase of flowers which her mother had put on the
table beside the bed. She did not actually pluck out the petals, because it
was a sweet, cheerful-looking marguerite that deserved to live. But she
counted round them—smiling and flippant. Or so she thought, until she
came to the final, “He loves me not,” when her chagrin was beyond
anything she could explain.

“It isn’t true!” she exclaimed indignantly. And this time she did not even
pause to laugh at herself. She counted again, more carefully—and found
that she had missed one petal “He loves me!” she said aloud, on a note of
gay triumph which rang strangely in her own ears. “Or, at least—he could.
And Felicity knows it. And she’s not going to stop at much in order to
prevent it. Why—”

The bell rang from below, and almost guiltily she stuffed the marguerite
back into the vase.

“It’s too ridiculous. I’m too ridiculous,” she exclaimed. “He is my trustee,
and rather a dear, and he’s taking me out just because he feels responsible
for me.”

But she knew that was not the whole of the story. And, as she caught up
her gloves and bag, let herself out of the flat and ran down the stairs to
Gregory, there still echoed in her head the silly little jingle, “He loves me—
he loves me not—”

“Ready?” He smiled at her. “You look radiant.”

“Do I?” She was surprised that she could have so many worries and look
radiant. “Did you get Laurie there in time?”
 “Oh, yes. And now we have the whole evening—though I promised her
not to keep you out late. What would you like to do?”

Cecile stood looking up at the beautiful early evening sky. “I wish we

could go somewhere into the country. Or almost country. Is there time?”

“Yes, of course. Shall I drive you out to see my mother?”

“Your mother?” Cecile gazed at him in astonishment. “Have you got a

mother?”

“Certainly. It’s customary, you know.”

“Yes, of course. But I thought somehow—You never spoke of her before.”

“Didn’t I? She lives quite a different life from mine. That’s why you
haven’t met her yet.”

“But when you told me—” she hesitated diffidently—“about your sister, I
remember you said that she had no one in whom to confide. I thought you
meant that your parents were both dead, even then.”

“No. My father was in the diplomatic service. They were both out East at
that time.”
 A sort of melancholy touched his expression for a moment, as though
even now he recalled his own isolation at that time. But there was not,
Cecile noticed with almost breathless interest, that look of bitterness which
had always been there before when he spoke of the old unhappiness.

“I see. And are they both still alive?”

“No. My father died seven years ago. My mother lives in a very beautiful
part of Surrey, just beyond Guildford. We have time to drive out there, have
dinner with her and get back at a reasonable hour. Would you like that?”

“If you think—” Cecile swallowed slightly, “that she won’t mind Laurie’s
daughter coming to see her.”

“She never knew about Laurie.”

“Never knew about her?” Cecile looked astounded.

“No. They were quite unable to come home at the time when it all
happened. By the time they returned to England Hugh had gone to
America, and all the talk had died down. I never knew quite what my father
thought, but Mother accepted the open verdict at the inquest as meaning
that Anne died by accident. I made it my business to encourage that belief,
and I saw to it that she never knew the details—or the other possibility.”
 “I see,” said Cecile gently. And once again she realized how unbearably
heavy his load of bitter, unshared knowledge must sometimes have been.
“Then I should love to meet her, if you will take me there.”

It was a delightful drive, as soon as they were free of the city and its
outskirts. And it seemed to Cecile that Gregory became less the lawyer and
more the indulgent trustee—and perhaps son—as they approached his
mother’s home. By the time they arrived at the small but infinitely
charming house, standing in its own ground, she felt relaxed and pleasantly
curious about her visit.

The front door stood open, and almost before the car stopped, a
handsome, grey-haired woman ran out, with almost youthful eagerness, to
greet them.

Even without the eagerness, she would have been unmistakably Gregory’s
mother, for the likeness was remarkable. Only, in her, the strongly marked
features were slightly softened, so that, though she was handsome, she was
not formidable. And the brilliant blue eyes which, in Gregory, could look
cold and uncompromising, were in her sparkling and unexpectedly gay.

“Darling, what a lovely surprise!” She kissed Gregory warmly and turned
to Cecile.

“This is Cecile, Mother—my new ward,” Gregory explained. And to

Cecile’s surprise and gratification, Gregory’s mother kissed her too.
 “My dear, it was high time he brought you to see me. I think an elderly,
respectable mother is just what is needed in the background of this rather
odd situation, don’t you? Gregory doesn’t seem responsible and venerable
enough for a guardian, somehow, does he?”

“I’m not,” Gregory explained patiently. “I’m a trustee. And Cecile thinks
I’m too responsible and interfering, rather than lacking in those qualities.”

It was a charming place, with one long sitting room running from the
front to the back of the house, and giving glimpses of a lovely garden on
either end. The furniture was elegant and, though varied and evidently the
collection of a lifetime of travelling, it had been worked into a satisfying
whole by an obviously cultured and tasteful hand.

“I hope you will regard it as something of your home, too,” her hostess
said kindly. “Since you have not your own parents—”

“But I have! I have my mother,” Cecile exclaimed quickly.

“I’m sorry—” Mrs. Picton looked surprised. “At least—I mean I’m glad,
of course. But I apologize, dear child. I had no idea. I thought that as you
had trustees—” She hesitated.

“We only look after Cecile’s financial affairs,” explained Gregory calmly,
“and give her a bit of advice from time to time. Which, I may say, she does
not usually take.”
 “Oh, that isn’t true!” Cecile laughed in protest. “My mother is an actress,
Mrs. Picton.” Suddenly she found it was quite easy to explain, since
Gregory was so casual about it all. “She naturally is greatly concerned with
her career. So, although she and I are very fond of each other, and even
share a flat—” she saw Gregory raise a humorous eyebrow at that, though
he said nothing—“I think my father felt it would be a good idea for me to
have trustees too.”

Evidently Mrs. Picton found this a perfectly adequate explanation, and she
said kindly, “Well, since I can obviously only offer you a second home, I
must say that I hope you will often visit me, dear, and always feel
welcome.”

And then his mother said that perhaps Cecile would like to come and see
the rest of the house before dinner, while Gregory looked at some
correspondence which was in his study.

First she looked into the kitchen to tell her maid that there would be two
more for dinner, and her maid, being Austrian, took this as a pleasant
surprise and a challenge to her skill, instead of an insult for an
encroachment on her own time. Then Mrs. Picton took Cecile upstairs.

The whole house carried the unmistakable print of her own most likeable
personality, and Cecile admired both her hostess’s charming room and the
small but pleasing guest room. What interested her most, however, was
Gregory’s room, with its few admirable prints, its enormous number of
books and—with a disagreeable shock Cecile recognized it—a very good
photograph of Felicity. Slightly idealized, but familiar enough for Cecile to
pause before it with a slight exclamation.

“Not one of the family,” Mrs. Picton explained, in a tone which subtly but
unmistakably conveyed the fact that, if Mrs. Picton had her way, that was a
position which would be maintained.

“I know her,” Cecile said. “And I don’t like her.”

She was ashamed of her crude candour, as soon as the words were out, but
Mrs. Picton took it unblinkingly.

“I don’t like her either,” she replied, in a confidential sort of tone. “But,
between ourselves, I am venturing to think that photograph remains here
more out of habit than anything else now.”

“Was he—very keen on her?” Suddenly they were two women cosily
discussing Gregory from the standpoint of shared knowledge and affection.

“At one time, yes. Men can be so silly,” Mrs. Picton said elliptically.
“Even the best of them have periods of blindness about some woman or
other. Given time, they get over it, like measles when they are younger. But
not all of them have time, of course, and then they are caught. I think,” she
smiled pensively, “Gregory had enough time. And now, Cecile, I think you
will be very good for him.”
 “It’s very nice of you to say so, Mrs. Picton. But you hardly know me,
you know. You’re guessing.”

“There is such a thing as inspired guessing,” was the succinct reply.

“Mothers are rather good at it.”

Then they went downstairs again, Cecile feeling indescribably happy and
welcome in this charming house. In the company of her serene, slightly
matter-of-fact, hostess, even the fear of Felicity and her dreadful knowledge
seemed slightly unreal. And that encounter outside the flat, earlier in the
evening, somehow faded in significance and ceased to have any sinister
meaning.

Dinner was a pleasant and friendly meal, but almost immediately after it
Gregory said they should go, if he were going to keep his promise to get
Cecile home in reasonable time.

“It was all too short,” Mrs. Picton declared as she kissed Cecile goodbye.
“But come again soon.”

“Oh, I will! And thank you so much for making me feel completely at
home, and for showing me—everything.”

“What did ‘everything’ mean?” Gregory wanted to know, amusedly, as

they drove away from the house.
 “What it says. I even saw your room,” Cecile told him.

“Did you?” He looked surprised. “I shouldn’t have thought there was

anything interesting about that.”

She nearly said, “Oh, yes!” when she recalled the photograph of Felicity
Waring, and the conversation she had had with Mrs. Picton. But she bit that
back. And then, she could not possibly have said why, she asked a direct
question, which was even worse. She said:

“Does that big photograph of Felicity on your dressing-table mean that

she is something rather special to you?”

She was horrified the moment the words had escaped her. But the glance
which he gave her was not angry. It was thoughtful and slightly puzzled.

“If I answer that question, Cecile, will you answer a question I very much
want to ask you, in return?” he said.

“Why—why, yes. I think so.” She hesitated, but her curiosity got the
better of her caution.

“Very well, then. That photograph means that once Felicity was
something special to me. She didn’t want to be so, and a final break was
made. And nowadays I am glad of it. Is that sufficient answer?”
 “Oh, yes,” cried Cecile, on a sudden note of joy. For, all at once, she knew
it meant a great deal to her that Felicity was of no special interest to him.

“And now it’s my turn.” He smiled ahead down the road in front of him.

“Y-yes?” She smiled, a little doubtfully, too.

“It’s also about Felicity, oddly enough,” he said slowly. “Why did she call
at your mother’s flat this evening? And why did you send her away and
pretend that a stranger had called by mistake?”
 CHAPTER VII

The surprise was so complete, the blow to her temporary sense of security
so totally unexpected, that for a moment Cecile could only stare at him in
wordless dismay.

“How did you know?” she asked at last. “You must be a mind reader.”

“Oh, no.” He laughed. “Nothing so dashing as that. It was quite simple,

really. When your mother left me, to go out of the flat and see what you
were doing, I strolled to the window to look out at the view. I went on
standing there when she returned, and, while she was pouring me another
drink, I happened to glance out of the window—”

“Oh—” Cecile put the back of her hand against her mouth.

“I saw Felicity come out of the house, cross the road and walk quickly
away. Then you came in—rather pale and scared-looking, as you are now—
and told us that story about a stranger mistaking the house. It didn’t exactly
ring true, Cecile, in the circumstances.”

“N-no. I see it wouldn’t. I forgot the window looked on the street. And
you were standing there when I came in. I remember now.”
 “Quite so,” he said, and waited. But all the inventive part of her mind
seemed to have gone blank.

What was she to tell him? The truth was impossible. And yet nothing even
remotely plausible came into her mind.

“I thought it all rather mysterious. I still do.” He was smiling faintly, she
saw, and apparently not yet taking the matter very seriously. Only, he was
curious.

“It was—nothing—really.” She made a tremendous effort to look casually

amused in her turn, but she felt that she managed no more than a stiff and
nervous little smile. “Felicity thought I was away from home, and she came
to see Laurie—”

“Do they know each other, then?” The question was quite gently posed,
but the tone of his voice had altered subtly and Cecile knew she had made a
bad start.

“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose they must.” Cecile strove to make that
sound light and unconcerned.

“If Felicity and Laurie know each other, they must have also recognized
each other when Laurie looked over the banisters, to enquire what was
happening. Why then did Laurie let you tell that story about a stranger
calling?”
 “Oh—” Cecile saw her mistake too late. “I don’t know—I mean—of
course, they couldn’t know each other, could they?”

“I’m asking you,” he reminded her drily.

“Well, then, obviously Laurie didn’t know Felicity. I—I had gone halfway
down the stairs to meet Felicity. She was very much taken aback to see me.
I thought perhaps she wanted to speak to you—that she had recognized
your car outside. But when I suggested that, she said ‘no’, and she seemed a
good deal put out at the discovery that you were there—”

She paused and took a deep breath at this point, but he said, with
deceptive gentleness, “Go on.”

He gave her a skeptical glance as he said that, however, which made it

difficult to struggle on. But Cecile had grasped the thread of a remotely
possible story at last, and nothing was going to make her let go.

“She said—Felicity said—that she preferred not to come up if you were

there, and she added, ‘Don’t even tell him I came.’ And then she hurried off
again. So, of course, when I came back upstairs, I—I had to give some
plausible sort of story which didn't bring her into it.”

Cecile thought she had not done too badly by now. But he cocked a
humorous eyebrow at her and observed, “You’re not a very good liar, are
you, Cecile?”
 “I’m not—” She flushed and dropped her eyes before his bright, amused,
skeptical glance. “What makes you think I am l-lying?”

“Almost everything,” he assured her a trifle maliciously. “If I had you

under cross-examination in Court, I’d make mincemeat of you in five
minutes.”

“But I’m not under cross-examination and I’m not in Court.” She felt
desperate, and she knew she must be looking sullen, because she had to
keep her lips pressed tightly together to stop them from trembling.

And then suddenly he drew the car to the side of the road, stopped the
engine and put his arm round her.

“True, my mendacious little ward. And so you could have said, quite
simply, that you just didn’t want to answer my question, instead of telling
me that very bad fairy story.”

“But you had already answered my question,” she reminded him, almost
in a whisper. “It—it was my turn to answer.”

“I didn’t mind answering yours,” he told her, with a smile. “So I wouldn’t
have insisted on the exact discharge of the bargain, you know.”

She heard him laugh softly and felt him kiss the tip of her ear lightly.
 “You’re not engaged on some activity that your trustees ought to know
about and forbid, are you?” he enquired, half amused, half serious.

“No, Gregory. Truly not!”

“Word of honour?” She knew he was still laughing, but the slight pressure
of his arm was reassuring.

“Yes—word of honour—really!”

“Very well. But you just don’t want to tell me why Felicity came this
evening or why you sent her away?”

“No. I don’t want to tell you.”

“We’ll leave it at that. He released her. But he looked at her quizzically as

he added, “Next time you want to tell fibs, try them on one of the other
trustees. I have had more practice than they have in detecting the truth and
the lie.”

“I’m sure you have.” Cecile looked rather sober.

They drove on after that, and he talked of other things—amusingly and

lightly, so that she was presently smiling again and talking too. But in the
background of her mind lingered the horrid, inescapable fact that he knew
now that there was something between herself and Felicity.
 He timed things so well that they arrived back at the flat just as Laurie’s
taxi, bringing her from the theatre, was drawing up outside the house. For a
few moments they stood together on the pavement, exchanging goodnights.
Then Gregory drove away, and Cecile and her mother mounted the stairs to
the flat together.

Over tea and toast, Cecile told Laurie about her visit to Mrs. Picton. At
which her mother looked reflective and said, “So he took you to see his
mother? Is he fond of you, Cecile?”

“In a way, yes. I think he is.”

“In what way?” enquired Laurie, looking amused.

“Oh—I think he likes having me for a sort of ward, and he is indulgent,

where he used to be strict. And he’s truly concerned about my welfare.”

“It sounds rather boring,” said Laurie with a slight yawn. “I didn’t mean
quite that.”

“It isn’t a bit boring,” retorted Cecile, somewhat nettled.

“Well, if you’re not going to marry Gregory Picton in the next week or
two—”
 “Marry him, Mother—and in a week or two? Whatever gave you such an
idea? It’s crazy!”

“So are lots of nice things,” replied Laurie, unmoved. “But if you have no
definite plans for the immediate future, shall we say, I suppose you had
better set about getting a job. What can you do?”

Cecile explained again about her idea of taking a refresher course in

business training and seeking a post as a not too ambitious secretary or
shorthand-typist.

“I suppose it’s practical,” Laurie conceded, “though it sounds dull to me.

But if you really make the grade, I might get you a job with Sir Lucas. He
has quite a big office staff at the theatre, because of his varied managerial
interests.”

“I’d love that!” cried Cecile. “But I’d have to be something really good
for that.”

“Well, Sir Lucas doesn’t suffer fools gladly, for all his good humour,”
Laurie admitted. “It wouldn’t be a private secretary’s job in the full sense,
you know. Miss Kitson is that, and nothing short of an earthquake is going
to dislodge her.”

“I don’t want to dislodge her,” declared Cecile, rather shocked by these

ideas of fierce competition. “But I’d like to work under her.”
 Laurie looked amused again.

“You aren’t a bit like me,” she said musingly. “No overriding ambition.
But perhaps that’s all to the good. I don’t think you’ll be difficult to settle,
somehow. Where do you propose to go for your training course?”

Cecile, who had made some enquiries, explained that she had been highly
recommended to a place quite near the flat, and that she intended to go
along in the morning and see about enrolling there.

“Very well,” her mother said. “Don’t wake me too early in your
enthusiasm.”

“Oh, no! Of course not. If you call out when you wake up, I’ll bring you
your breakfast in bed.”

“Will you?” Laurie smiled at her indulgently. “Do you make good coffee?
I don’t have anything but coffee and toast.”

“I’ll do my best,” Cecile promised. “Father always approved of my

coffee.”

“Well, come! we may discover we have one thing in common, after all,”
her mother replied ironically. “What are you going to do with yourself on
Saturday, by the way? I always have a quiet morning and a very busy
afternoon and evening then, so don’t count on my company.”
 “No. I had thought of that. I’m going out to Erriton Hall for the day.”

“Where on earth is that?”

“It’s where Uncle Algernon—I mean Mr. Deeping—lives. He is the third

trustee, you remember.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. Is Gregory Picton driving you out there?”

“No. Maurice—Mr. Deeping’s nephew—is taking me.”

Laurie looked at her reflectively again and she smiled suddenly. “Perhaps
you take after me, after all,” she remarked. “Two admirers ready to run you
round the country to meet their relatives isn’t bad.” Then she kissed Cecile
goodnight and firmly sent her off to bed.

The next morning, after putting things to rights in the flat, and taking
Laurie her coffee and toast, Cecile set off to make enquiries at the business-
training college of her choice.

It proved to be one of those useful organizations which cater for almost all
requirements. And after some discussion—and some unexpectedly
searching tests—Cecile was told that, with a month’s intensive re-training,
she should be suitably equipped to offer herself to the business world as a
reasonably qualified employee.
 During the next few days, Cecile made the discovery that life with Laurie
was quite unusually pleasant. For, now that her mother had apparently
decided to put a line under the past, and look resolutely to the future, she
was a much happier, even gayer, creature than Cecile had ever supposed
possible.

She laughed when Cecile recalled what Florrie and Stella had said of her,
and remarked reminiscently, “I suppose I was gay then.”

“You still are, when you allow yourself to be,” Cecile told her.

“Yes? Well, it’s fun having you here,” was the frank reply. And Cecile,
thinking how strange and charming it was to hear her mother use such a
word, felt that she could not be thankful enough that she had insisted on
this arrangement being made.

On Saturday, Maurice called for her about eleven o’clock, and, on coming
upstairs to the flat, was introduced to Laurie, who gave a splendid repeat
performance in her role of worldly but sympathetic mother.

“I say, your mother is a charmer!” he observed, as Cecile and he drove

away from the flat, on the first stage of their journey to Uncle Algernon.
“She looks like your sister, for one thing. And she’s a much warmer, more
sympathetic person than she appears to be on the stage. Or than you led me
to suppose, now I come to think of it.”
 “She is like everyone else,” Cecile replied, with a satisfied smile. “She is
a much nicer person as soon as she is happier. I love living with her.”

“So you were right.” Maurice glanced at her curiously, but admiringly.
“And all the trustees were wrong.”

“Well, it was mostly Gregory and Mr. Carisbrooke, the solicitor,” Cecile
admitted justly. “But they’ve capitulated handsomely now. So we won’t say
any more about it. Tell me instead how Uncle Algernon is. And—and why
Felicity is staying down there.”

“Oh, she always did, from time to time, you know. She used to be there
for long spells when she was a kid and her people were abroad. A propos
Felicity, did you work out your own private mystery to your satisfaction,
and decide just why she had tried to call on your mother?”

“Oh—yes. I think I got to the bottom of it. I daresay I made too much of it
when I spoke to you. I’ll have to speak to her sometime today rather
sharply. That’s all.”

“It’s enough,” Maurice told her good-humouredly. “Felicity doesn’t take

easily to sharp speaking. Unless, of course, she is doing it herself. But good
luck.”

“Thanks,” Cecile said, and smiled vaguely.

 They arrived rather earlier in the afternoon this time, and were
immediately conducted to Uncle Algernon’s bedroom. He was not in the
large, handsome four-poster bed, but sitting up in a chair, in a very
magnificent dressing gown, looking more lined and shrunken than ever.

“I’m a very sick man,” he announced, with a sort of gloomy satisfaction

in his own woes. “I shan’t be troubling any of you much longer.”

“Oh, nonsense, Uncle Algernon,” declared Maurice, a little mechanically.

“And, in any case, you don’t trouble any of us.”

“Yes, I do,” retorted his uncle tartly. “That’s what I aim to do, and I flatter
myself I have a considerable measure of success.”

This naturally had a somewhat blighting effect on the opening stages of

the conversation. But Cecile drew up a chair near his and, taking his hand
in her warm one, asked kindly what was the matter with him.

“Everything,” said Uncle Algernon. But he looked at her with a good deal
of pleasure and added, “That’s a becoming dress. How are your plans for
earning your own living, eh?”

Cecile gave him an amusing account of her visit to the business-training

college, and explained that she would be starting work there on Monday.
 “My great-niece Felicity is here, you know.” He shot a sharp glance at
Cecile. “Your rival with Gregory Picton.”

“Uncle, that’s absurd! Cecile doesn’t even like Gregory Picton,” declared
Maurice—rather officiously Cecile thought, until she remembered that he
undoubtedly meant well, and was only slightly out-of-date with his facts.

“We get on quite well now,” she stated sedately. “But I assure you that
neither Felicity nor I would regard each other as rivals.”

“No? Well, my information is different,” retorted Uncle Algernon, which

naturally made Cecile intensely curious about his source of information.

But his next words drove everything else from her mind, for what he said
was, “And what is this I hear about some letters being found?”

“L-letters?” stammered Cecile. “What letters?”

“I’m asking you,” observed Uncle Algernon with satisfaction.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, looking him straight
in the eye. And it came to her that she was doing this much better than she
had with Gregory. Or perhaps, as he had said, Gregory was better at
detecting untruths than either of the other trustees.
 At any rate, the old man stared back at her for a moment, as though he
would put her out of countenance some way. Then he remarked, in a
disgruntled sort of way, “She seems very cagey about telling anyone much.
But Felicity has some letters that would blow the top off some story or
other. She promised to show them to me sometime.” Cecile felt a lump of
ice slide down her spine. “But she hasn’t done anything about it yet.”

“I expect she has made half of it up,” said Cecile as casually as she could.
“And, anyway, you shouldn’t read other people’s letters.”

“Fiddlesticks,” replied Uncle Algernon, who was not going to be done out
of a promising piece of scandal. Then he rang the bell for his manservant to
help him downstairs to the drawing room for tea. Cecile and Maurice
followed at a respectful distance.

When the old man was installed, with some ceremony and a great deal of
grumbling, in his armchair downstairs, the familiar well-laden tea-trolley
was wheeled into the room. And, at the same moment, Felicity made her
appearance through the french windows from the garden.

She seemed momentarily taken aback at seeing Cecile. But she recovered
a sort of insolent self-possession, and said, “Hello, Maurice. It’s a long time
since I saw you.” And, to Cecile, “Hello. What brings you down here?”

“She has every right here. She is my ward,” observed Uncle Algernon,
being argumentative on principle, though he gave Felicity a friendlier
glance than any Cecile had seen him bestow upon Maurice.

“Oh yes, of course.” Felicity laughed slightly. “She has all sorts of useful
trustees, hasn’t she?”

“Gregory Picton among them.” Uncle Algernon could hardly bring the
name in fast enough. “I’ve just been telling her that you and she are rivals
there. But she says I am quite wrong, and that she doesn’t even like
Gregory.”

“I didn’t say that at all,” exclaimed Cecile quickly, while Felicity gave her
a sidelong glance of acute dislike. “I said that I got on quite well with
Gregory now, but that neither Felicity nor I would be so silly as to regard
each other as rivals in any sense.”

“I’m glad you feel so sure of that,” returned Felicity contemptuously. And
conversation naturally languished again.

“She says she doesn’t know anything about any letters, either,” remarked
Uncle Algernon to no one in particular. And Cecile began to wonder why
she had been so foolish as to come. To try to disentangle a delicate situation
in this atmosphere was like playing with gunpowder and lighted matches.

Maurice unexpectedly came to the rescue at this point by asking Felicity

about her American trip. And although she went into a good deal of detail
which was not especially interesting to Cecile, at least this had the virtue of
keeping Uncle Algernon from any more dangerous quips.

This, however, was not his idea of intelligent conversation. And, in spite
of Cecile’s questions about his interesting ailments, and a certain amount of
astringent sympathy on her part, he presently became either tired or bored
and said he would go back to his room.

It was Maurice who offered to escort him there. And suddenly, with a
tensing of all her nerves, Cecile realized that her scene with Felicity was
very near.

There was silence for a few moments when the two men had gone. Then
Cecile said, with all the quiet resolution she could muster:

“This is as good a chance as any for a frank talk, Felicity. Will you tell me
now why you came to see Laurie the other day?”

The other girl sprawled gracefully in the chair opposite, apparently much
more at ease than Cecile, and she curled her lip contemptuously as she
replied.

“Don’t be so naive. I came to tell her I had her letters to Hugh Minniver,
of course. Why else should I come?”
 Cecile paled. Not because this was a surprise, but because, put in words,
the fact had an incredibly ugly sound.

“I gathered that, of course,” she admitted quietly. “But what I don’t

understand is why you should want to do it. What useful purpose could it
serve, to shatter Laurie’s peace of mind with the knowledge that those
letters exist?”

For a moment Felicity was silent, and Cecile had the impression that she
was feeling her way—trying to decide how much she should say. Then a
look of flinty determination came over her face and she asked harshly, “Do
you want me to be completely frank?”

“Please. I don’t see what else could be any good now.”

“Very well, then. You were stupid when you told Uncle Algernon that you
and I were not rivals where Gregory is concerned. Of course we are rivals.
Gregory and I were very close in the days before I went away to America.”

“Well, yes. I realize that,” Cecile said, a little uncomfortably. “But you
turned him down, didn’t you? And the whole thing was over by the time
you went away.”

“One can make a mistake.” Felicity narrowed her eyes. “I made a mistake.
I admit it. When I was away from him, I found out how much he meant to
me. That’s why I came back—meaning to put the clock back and to take
things up where we had dropped them. Almost the first evening after my
return we met again. At first I thought he must have engineered it. Then I
found it was a sheer coincidence. And—you were there.”

Cecile swallowed nervously, and suddenly found herself unable to look

anywhere but into Felicity’s cold, inimical eyes.

“He is just my trustee,” she said huskily. “You are being quite absurd.”

“Are you telling me that Gregory is nothing to you—or you to him?”

asked Felicity ruthlessly.

“No. I’m not telling you anything,” Cecile said firmly. “It’s ridiculous that
you should suppose I would. I’m not making any sort of statement about
my relationship with Gregory. It has nothing whatever to do with the way
he regards you. If he loved you once—” she was half scared by the look
which came into Felicity’s face when she used that word “once”, but she
went on resolutely, “and if you want to make him love you again, that’s up
to you. I have absolutely nothing to do with it, and I refuse to be involved.”

"But you are involved,” replied Felicity, with bitter candour. “He’s more
than half in love with you already.”

Cecile caught her breath, and then was completely still. For this, she knew
all at once, was not just the jealous vapouring of a dangerous woman. It
was the simple, deadly truth.
 Felicity’s own intensity of feeling had taken her straight to the heart of the
matter. She knew, with the furious certainty of the loser, who it was that had
snatched the crown from her, however unwittingly.

“She’s right,” thought Cecile. “Oh, Gregory—she’s right.”

“Well,” said Felicity, in that moment. “What have you to say to that?”

“Nothing.” Cecile tilted up her chin defiantly. “You’re completely fogging

the issue. What has all this to do with your going to Laurie and trying to
make her wretched by dragging up her unhappy past?”

“Why—everything. Don’t you see?” Felicity stared at her in genuine

surprise. “I told you those letters might have a use one day. They have it
now. They are the only weapon I have which will stop you from taking
Gregory away from me.”

“But—” Cecile stood up suddenly, unable to remain seated before the

monstrous truth which was breaking upon her—“what are you saying? You
can’t do such a thing. You can’t blackmail me into—into thrusting aside
Gregory’s love, by threatening to show him the evidence of Laurie’s guilt.”

“You’re mistaken.” Felicity too had risen to her feet, and she spoke quite
calmly, “I can do just that. If you don’t take your hands off Gregory, I’ll
show him those letters—and then see how anxious he will be to have more
to do with you and your mother. But, if you do as I ask, I’ll give you the
letters on the day I marry Greg. You can burn them then or do anything else
you like with them. They won’t have any value any longer.”
 CHAPTER VIII

For perhaps five seconds there was complete silence in the room. Then
Cecile said quietly, “You can’t do such a thing, you know. You couldn’t be
so absolutely horrible. It would injure me and my mother, it’s true. But
think what it would do to you."

Felicity looked oddly shaken for a moment. But then she hardened her
mouth—and perhaps her heart.

“I wouldn’t want to do it,” she admitted candidly. “But don’t imagine that
any inner reluctance would actually prevent me from carrying out my
threat. More than anything else in the world I want Gregory back. I give
you fair warning—I’m not going to stop at anything to bring that about.”

“But it isn’t possible to do things that way! You can’t command anyone’s
love or respect. You must surely know that. You can’t plot to obtain it
either. You can only earn it. And whether or not you make Gregory love
you again doesn’t depend on me. It depends on you.”

“Your absence from the field would be the first step towards it,” retorted
Felicity calmly. “I can’t afford to have a formidable rival at this moment.
And we are rivals, just as Uncle Algernon said. I choose to see my rival out
of the way. Then—I say it quite objectively—I’m confident that I can get
Gregory back.”

Cecile was silent, thinking of the calm and final way Gregory had said
that Felicity was no longer anything special in his life. But it was
impossible to say anything about that without evoking an even more
dangerous degree of jealousy.

“Besides,” thought Cecile, “she wouldn’t believe me. And for that at least
I don’t think I could blame her.”

She gave a deep sigh and turned back to the other girl. “What do you
expect me to do?” she enquired, with a helpless little gesture of her hands.

“It’s simple enough. There was a time, not so long ago, when you were at
loggerheads with Gregory. I’ve heard it from Uncle Algernon and I’ve seen
something of it myself. You talk of getting on better with him now. Well,
you must reverse that. See that you do not get on better with him.”

“I can’t do that!” cried Cecile in sharp protest. “We’ve become so—so

friendly and happy. I can’t deliberately spoil it all.” Felicity did not answer,
but her expression grew even harder. “I can’t just pick quarrels with him,”
Cecile continued. “Besides—” the conviction was born in on her and she
spoke it aloud—“nowadays he would insist on making them up again. We
understand each other so much better. It’s a perfectly normal and happy
ward-trustee relationship. I can’t just break it up to order.”
 “Then you must freeze him out—choke him off—however you like to put
it,” replied Felicity calmly. “Anyone can do that.”

But Cecile did not think she could. For, as she stood there, there passed
rapidly before her mental vision half a dozen pictures of Gregory as she had
come to know him. Teasing her, kissing her, making himself pleasant to
Laurie for her sake.

She did not see how it was humanly possible that she should reject all
that. Suddenly it had become the most precious thing in life.

Except—a lump came into her throat—dared she rank it as more precious
than Laurie’s precarious, new-found happiness, which this cold-eyed girl
could smash with one blow?

And, in any case, if Gregory once read those letters—saw for himself, in
horrid detail, how Laurie had pushed Hugh Minniver towards the action
which ended in Anne’s death—could anything ever be dear and warm and
normal between them again?

She became aware that Felicity was watching her closely, and she tried to
grasp every detail of the situation. Pushing back her hair with a distracted
little gesture, she asked suddenly, “Why did you try to bring Laurie herself
into this? Why did you think it would strengthen your hand to have her
know the situation?”
 “I reckoned that she would use all her influence with you to see that the
letters were suppressed at all costs. She would, too. Any woman would.”

“No. As a matter of fact, you’re wrong there.” Cecile spoke coldly and
positively. “Laurie is the defiant, quixotic type who would refuse to let me
sacrifice my happiness for hers. You had better not talk to her about it. I
probably have more regard for Laurie’s happiness than she has herself. It is
with me that you’ll have to drive any bargain that is made.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes for a moment. Then she said, “Well, perhaps
you’re right. Now that the cards are on the table, there is no special need to
bring your mother into it. At any rate at present.” Felicity was not going to
yield any point permanently. “So it comes to this—What have you to say
about it? Do I show Gregory the letters, or do you give me every reason to
keep them to myself?”

There was a long silence again, while Cecile felt like a small animal
running round and round a trap and trying to find a non-existent way out.

“I can’t promise you,” she said at last, “that I can make Gregory either
dislike me or—or feel specially angry with me. I just don’t know how to
make him do that—now.” In spite of herself her voice broke very slightly
on the word “now.” “But I will undertake to see that he doesn’t—make love
to me or—or think it would be welcome to me if he did. In that sense, I will
cease to be your rival, if that’s what you want me to say. What you manage
to make him do, so far as you are concerned, is up to you. There is nothing
more I can say.”

“It will do,” replied Felicity, in a tone of such triumphant satisfaction that
Cecile suddenly wanted to fall upon her and beat her, with a primitive rage
and despair that she had not known herself capable of feeling.

“At least, it will do for the moment,” went on Felicity coolly. “So long as
the coast is kept clear, I will keep those letters away from Gregory. You
needn’t worry over that. I’ll play fair about that, if you play fair with me.
But I warn you, if you try to double-cross me—to reject him with one hand
and beckon him on with the other, I’ll use those letters without a qualm.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Cecile was very pale, and she spoke with a cold scorn
which made even Felicity wince. “Whatever we have not done in this
conversation, at least we have made ourselves clear to each other.”

“Well, that’s something!” Felicity gave a short laugh. And then, without
another word, she turned and went out through the french windows into the
garden again, while Cecile dropped down into the nearest chair and covered
her face with her hands.

“It doesn’t matter all that much to me,” she tried to tell herself. “It’s
horrible to have even to discuss such a monstrous bargain. But it isn’t as
though I were engaged to him and had to break that. It’s just that I—that I
—Oh, Gregory, why did this have to happen, my dear? Just now. Just as
everything was—was flowering so beautifully. Only I do love you—and yet
I mustn’t love you. She has spoiled it all, even before I knew what had
happened to me.” The tears came into her eyes, but she forced them back,
for she heard footsteps approaching, and, a moment later, the door opened
and Maurice came into the room.

“Why, hello—all alone?” He looked round in some surprise. “Where’s

Felicity?”

“In the garden. We had our talk, Maurice, and it wasn’t exactly pleasant.
Don’t ask me about it or I might burst into tears. I’ll get over it in a
minute.”

“I say, I’m sorry.” He came over and stood looking down at her kindly. “Is
there anything I can do about it? Shall I go and speak to her?”

“No. No.” Cecile was terrified at the idea of someone else knowing more
of the miserable situation. “I’m all right—see.” She even smiled faintly at
him. “Only I thought you had better know why I look a bit dismal.”

“Dear girl—” he sat down on the arm of the chair and put his arm round
her—“if you want a shoulder to cry upon, take mine.” She managed to
smile again at that, but it was a terrible effort. For it was not his shoulder
she wanted. It was Gregory’s.
 “It’s over now.” She gave a shaky little laugh. “Ought we to be going
soon?”

“Perhaps we should. For I don’t imagine you’ll want to stay to dinner, in

the circumstances.”

“Oh, no!” The very idea horrified her.

“Well, the old man wants to see you before we depart. Would you like to
go up now?”

“Yes. All right. Are you coming?”

“No. He wants to see you alone, for some reason. I think he’s had about
enough of me today. And, to tell the truth,” Maurice grinned, “the feeling is
mutual.”

So Cecile went upstairs alone, to the big bedroom with the elaborately
carved double doors. And here she found Uncle Algernon in bed, attired in
elegantly striped silk pyjamas which would not have disgraced a successful
film star.

“Had a chat with Felicity?” he enquired, as she came and sat down by the
bed.
 “Yes,” said Cecile briefly. “And I hear you want to have a chat with me
too. But not on the same subject, I hope.” She looked at him
uncompromisingly.

“I don’t know what Felicity had to talk about. She never tells me
anything.” He settled back among his pillows with an aggrieved air. “But
then I don’t tell her much either,” he added, cheering up somewhat, “and
she has no idea what I am going to say to you.”

No?” Cecile smiled slightly. “What is it, then?”

“I am going to make a new will on Monday and I’m going to put you in
it.”

“But I don’t want you to!” cried Cecile, rather put out. “I told you before.
I haven’t any claim on you, since you have relations of your own. And if
you leave me a lot of money—”

“Who says it is a lot?” enquired Uncle Algernon disagreeably. “It may be

only a hundred pounds, for all you know.”

“Oh, well—if it’s just a sort of token of friendliness, that’s different,”

Cecile conceded.

“It isn’t a token of friendliness. I haven’t any friends,” Uncle Algernon

was final about that, “and I don’t want any friends. If I leave anyone any
money, it will be because I want them to go on doing what I want after I’m
gone.”

“That’s a bit difficult to arrange,” Cecile remarked practically. “What do

you want me to do for my hundred pounds?”

“It isn’t a hundred pounds, you silly girl. It’s fifty thousand pounds,”
retorted Uncle Algernon smugly. “And what I want you to do is marry
Maurice.”

“Marry Maurice! You’re crazy,” Cecile cried. “And you’ve been talking to
Felicity,” she added quickly, thinking that she scented some collusion here.

“No, I haven’t. What had Felicity to say about Maurice?” enquired the old
man, looking incredibly knowing and curious.

“Nothing. I was thinking of something else. But, anyway, I think your

idea is quite mad.”

“On the contrary, it’s very sound. I want you to marry Maurice because I
think you are the girl he needs for his wife.”

“Why don’t you tell him that?” enquired Cecile drily.

“I have.”
 “Did you tell him about the fifty thousand too?”

"No. I don’t want him to marry you for your money. Any man would
marry any girl for fifty thousand pounds,” declared Uncle Algernon
uncharitably. “I want him to marry you for yourself. I told him you would
make him the best wife in the world—that you’d make a man of him, and
he’d be a fool if he let you slip through his fingers. That’s all.”

“It seems quite a lot. What did he say to that?”

“Told me to mind my own business.” Uncle Algernon pulled down the

corners of his mouth disapprovingly.

“Good for him!” observed Cecile. “I’m glad he answered you back at
last.”

“We’re getting off the subject,” said Uncle Algernon tartly. “I’m letting
you know now that I’m putting it in my will that if you marry my nephew
Maurice Deeping, you will inherit fifty thousand pounds. You don’t get it
otherwise.”

“If you do that you’ll make it absolutely impossible for me to marry him,
even if I do want to,” Cecile pointed out good-humouredly.

“Why?”
 “Because everyone would think I took him for the fifty thousand pounds,
of course.”

“Who cares?” Uncle Algernon sniffed. “And, anyway, they wouldn’t

know. Because, by the time my will is read, you’ll be married to him
anyway.”

“How do you know?” said Cecile. “I thought you told us you weren’t
going to trouble any of us much longer and were going to die next week or
something.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” replied Uncle Algernon crossly. “And, anyway,

it’s very indelicate to talk like that. As though you wanted me to die next
week.”

“I don’t want you to die next week. You’re much too entertaining,” said
Cecile, and, laughing, she bent over and kissed the old man on his withered
cheek. “But nor do I want your fifty thousand pounds. Either to marry
Maurice or for any other reason. You leave me a hundred pounds, if you
like, just to show we were friends. That will do nicely.”

“I’m not going to leave you a hundred pounds. I’m going to leave you
fifty thousand,” retorted Uncle Algernon, in a great rage. “And you’re a
stupid, ungrateful girl if you don’t marry Maurice.”
 “I’ll think it over,” Cecile promised lightly. “Though I wasn’t aiming to
marry anyone just now.” Then she caught her breath on a sigh—but not for
Maurice. “I must go now. Maurice is ready to drive me back to town.”

Uncle Algernon sulked at this, and only melted very slightly even when
Cecile kissed him goodbye.

“I’ll come again soon, shall I?” She stood by the bed, smiling down at
him.

“It’s immaterial to me,” he retorted.

“No, it isn’t. You like to see me—just as I like to see you,” Cecile told
him. “I’ll come and tell you how I get on at the business college, and you
shall tell me how you get on with your new will.”

“You’re being very foolish about this,” Uncle Algernon assured her. “You
don’t know which side your bread is buttered, young woman.”

“Well, maybe that’s better than trying to hog everyone else’s butter,”
retorted Cecile. A view so novel and astonishing to Uncle Algernon that she
left him silently thinking that over when she finally departed.

To her relief, she did not have to see Felicity again. She was nowhere
around when they took their leave, and they drove away from Erriton Hall
with no more than the wintry valedictions of the housekeeper to cheer them
on their way.

“What did Uncle Algernon want?” enquired Maurice curiously, as they

drove through the country lanes. “Or is it a secret?”

“Not so far as I’m concerned.” Cecile smiled. “He just wanted to talk
about making a new will on Monday. But, to tell you the truth, I didn’t pay
much attention to what he had to say about it. For I’m perfectly sure that
whatever he does on Monday he will regret on Tuesday.”

“Did he say anything about putting you in the will?”

She saw Maurice could not take it all so lightly as she did. “Only on the
lines of—if I were a good girl and did what he told me, I might hear of
something to my advantage.” She laughed and shrugged carelessly. “I’m
sure it didn’t mean a thing, Maurice.”

He looked at her, half amused and half exasperated.

“I believe you honestly don’t care,” he said. “Are you really quite
indifferent to money, Cecile, and all the pleasant things it can buy?”

“No, of course not. I’d be just as pleased as the next person if I were
suddenly presented with a fortune,” Cecile declared. “But I would never
spoil the present by worrying about what the future might or might not
bring. And, though I don’t want to sound trite or unworldly, I know from
my own experience that there can be a great deal of unhappiness in a well-
to-do household. While most of the things I love—and want,” her lips
trembled, in spite of herself, “have nothing to do with money.”

“You’re a darling,” said Maurice unexpectedly. “And you make me feel a

material-minded, over-anxious worm.”

“Maurice dear! How unpleasant. And what a very inaccurate impression

to have of yourself.”

He laughed at that.

“I mean that when you talk in that wholesome, objective way, I know that
I mind too much about the material things, and let the urge to them rule my
life. I don’t love money in the way Uncle Algernon does—just for the
pleasure of counting it and making people wish they could get it from him.
But I do love all the pleasant things it can buy.”

“That’s just being human, I guess,” Cecile smiled at him.

“All right. But you seem independent of that. I long for leisure and travel
and a good car and a high standard of living. I see it all dangling there, in
Uncle Algernon’s grasp—and I can’t be indifferent to the fact that he has it
in his power to bestow it or withdraw it.”
 “Well—you’ve been a great deal nearer to the enticing prospect than I
have,” Cecile conceded. “Perhaps that makes it harder to be indifferent. But
don’t think of it so much, Maurice. Think of all the other things that
matter.”

“What, for instance?” Maurice asked skeptically.

“Oh—I don’t know. Being well and young and having at least an adequate
income, and possibly sharing all that with someone who makes life doubly
rich just by their sheer presence. These are the things that can happen to
anyone, any day—without any Uncle Algernon to say them yea or nay.”

“It’s the last thing you listed which counts most, you know.” Maurice
looked thoughtfully ahead. “The sharing it all with someone who makes
life rich. Perhaps I’ve never put a sufficiently high value on that before.”

They were silent for a moment. Then he said abruptly, “Would you marry
a comparatively poor man, Cecile?”

“If I loved him—yes.”

“Even if he had no Uncle Algernon prospects?” He turned his head and

grinned at her, but she saw suddenly that he was more than half serious.

“That wouldn’t make any difference at all, I’m sure,” she said quietly.
“But I’m speaking quite academically, because at the moment I’m not
going to marry anyone. I’m giving myself some time with Laurie, so that
we can both be happy together.”

“I see.” Maurice was looking ahead again, rather soberly. And she
thought, with an irrepressible flash of humour, that it was impossible to tell
if he were regretting a lost opportunity or congratulating himself on a
narrow escape.

They were a good deal delayed by the Saturday traffic as they neared
London, and when they finally arrived back at the flat it was later than
Cecile had intended. She had hoped to have half an hour with Laurie before
it was necessary for her to leave for the evening performance, but now,
Cecile knew, her mother would have already departed to the theatre.

However, the prospect of some hours alone was suddenly a welcome

relief, and she refused Maurice’s invitation to dinner, saying that she had
something of a headache after the long drive.

“Give me a call and we’ll do a dinner together another evening,” she told
him. “And—thank you, Maurice, for being such a sympathetic and
understanding companion.”

“Was I?” Maurice smiled a bit dubiously. “I have an idea that I handled
something badly. But there’s always another day. Sleep well, Cecile dear—
and forget about Felicity.”
 If only she could! thought Cecile, as she went up the stairs to the flat. But
day and night she must remember Felicity, and the ever-present danger that
she represented.

On the table in the sitting room she found a note from Laurie. “We are all
invited to supper by Sir Lucas, after the show,” Laurie had scrawled, in her
large, flowing hand. “Gregory Picton will be fetching you. Wear something
nice and look your best. It just might lead to the kind of job you want.”

Cecile, who had never felt less like going on show and trying to be bright
and attractive, groaned aloud. But then she reminded herself that at least
she had an hour or two in which to prepare for the test.

And test it would be. Looking back at her mother’s note, she saw only the
words that Gregory would be coming to fetch her. And, with an
indescribable sinking of her heart, she realized that this very evening she
would have to begin to adopt the attitude which was to drive Gregory away
from her. Somehow she must convey to him that a sort of indifference was
growing up on her side.

But how was one indifferent to someone who had come to mean so much?
In principle, she had accepted this bitter and unwelcome role. How she was
to play it she had, as yet, no idea.

Presently Cecile had a leisurely bath, did her hair a new way, and put on a
becoming flower-printed dress, in the hope that all this would make her feel
better able to tackle whatever ordeal awaited her.

Then she remembered that she had had nothing to eat since teatime at
Uncle Algernon’s house. But she felt little hunger, and she contented herself
with going into the kitchen and pouring herself a glass of milk. She was
standing by the table drinking this when Gregory rang.

For a terrified moment she thought she could not go on. Then a sort of
cold calm settled on her, and, going out into the little hall, she pressed the
lever which opened the street door and set the flat door open for him.

She heard him coming up the stairs, two steps at a time, and she longed to
match that almost boyish eagerness by running out to meet him. Instead,
however, she went into the sitting room, flung herself down in an armchair
and, as he entered the flat, she called out casually,

“Hello—you’re early, aren’t you?”

“Too early?” he enquired, standing in the doorway and smiling at her.

“Oh, no. I’m ready.”

“I’ll say you are.” He came slowly forward and regarded her with
pleasure. “You look lovely in that dress. And you’ve done your hair a
different way. It’s nice. Rather sophisticated for your type—but charming.”
 “What is my type? Childish—and in need of a trustee, I suppose?” And
she shrugged, as though she found his comment slightly irritating.

“Why—no.” He looked at her with faint surprise. But he did not commit
the fatal error of asking her if she were tired. Instead, he came and sat down
in the chair opposite and asked,

“What did you do with yourself today?”

“I went down to see Uncle Algernon.”

“Oh, yes—of course. How is the old boy? Gloomy as ever?”

“Yes. Though Felicity was there, which seemed to cheer him up a little. I
think he is almost fond of her.” Cecile supposed bitterly that she had better
throw in some kind remarks about Felicity, for good measure.

“Yes?”

She was half charmed, half dismayed that he showed no interest whatever
in the subject of Felicity. For while this would make her difficult task even
more difficult, it was not humanly possible to be anything but pleased by
his indifference to her rival.

Cecile asked him about the supper party then, and he explained that it was
quite a small, informal affair—Sir Lucas’s friendly way of making Laurie’s
daughter welcome, now that she had come to live on the fringe of their
circle.

“You mean it’s for me?” Cecile could not but be flattered. “How very nice
—and gratifying. He must have arranged it with Laurie, I suppose, after the
matinee. But how did you come into it, Gregory?”

“I think I was Laurie’s suggestion.” Gregory smiled. “Which I find

gratifying, in my turn. That was a good idea of yours, Cecile, to bring us
together on the day of your return.”

“Was it?” Cecile said, rather sadly, for it seemed to her now that her
innocent scheming was pathetically out of date.

“Why, of course.” He gave her another of those quick, penetrating looks.

“Laurie seems to regard me as your natural escort—which I find a very
pleasing way of bridging the old gap. She rang me up herself early this
evening, and made the suggestion that I should come along.”

“Did she?” Cecile could not quite suppress a sensation of triumphant

pleasure. But then, remembering the demands of her new role, she felt
bound to add, reflectively, “I’m a little surprised that she didn’t suggest
Maurice should bring me.”

“Maurice? Why Maurice?” Gregory seemed surprised that he should even

find a place in the discussion. And, all at once, Cecile found herself groping
towards a possible justification for her new attitude.

“I was out with him today, and Laurie knew it. I suppose the obvious
thing was to let him bring me on to the party.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t.” Gregory dismissed Maurice’s claims with cheerful

finality. “I imagine that anyone with Laurie’s stage experience would cast
him for a very minor role in your young life. And quite right too.”

“Don’t you be so sure!” Cecile forced a light but convincing laugh, and
somehow she contrived to give Gregory a glance which suggested that he
did not know quite as much as he thought he did.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Gregory was evidently not going to deal
in glances and innuendo. Though perfectly good humoured about it, he was
going to have things in black and white. “As your trustee, I would suggest
that Maurice Deeping is not worth more than your very passing attention.”

“You have that out with the other trustees,” Cecile told him mockingly.
“Uncle Algernon, at least, would not agree with you. In fact, he gave me
quite a lecture today on the desirability of my marrying his nephew.”

"He couldn’t have been serious!”

“On the contrary, he was willing to back his candidate to the tune of fifty
thousand pounds.”
 “The old bounder!"

“But why? Maurice is a very dear fellow. Even without fifty thousand
pounds.”

“He may be.” Gregory smiled across at her—lazily, but in a way that
made Maurice a thing of naught. “Only he just doesn’t come into this at
all.”

“What do you mean by that?” She tried to sound angry, but failed.

“I mean, my darling,” he said, pleasantly but finally, “that if I had been

there this afternoon, I should have told Uncle Algernon the exact truth.
Which is that you are not going to marry anyone but me.”
 CHAPTER IX

“Gregory—you mustn’t talk like that!” Cecile sprang to her feet, rapture
and dismay almost equally mingled, in the emotion which drove the colour
from her face. “It isn’t even a good joke.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He too had risen, and for a moment he seemed to
tower over her, though he was smiling good-humouredly still. “It’s the
simple truth. You don’t suppose I’m going to let any other fellow have you,
do you?”

“But—you don’t know! You haven’t even asked my views.”

“Very well. I ask you now. Though it isn’t the moment I would have
chosen. I mean you to have some time with Laurie first—to enjoy being a
daughter before you began to enjoy being a wife. But if the issue is to be
forced—”

Putting out his hand, he drew her to him and smiled down at her. “Well,
my darling? When are you going to marry me?”

“I haven’t said I’m going to at all,” she cried, horribly torn between desire
and cruel necessity. “You have no right to assume that I would. You’re
being arrogant and—and—”

“Take it easy,” he said, and kissed her softly. “I’ll begin at the beginning,
if you like, but I thought we understood each other better than that. Will
you marry me, my dearest ward, when you come of age, in a few months’
time, and it won’t look quite so much like baby-snatching on my part?”

“I—don’t know.” She stared up at him. “I mean—no—I don’t think so.”

She made an attempt to escape such close scrutiny, but his arms still held
her, lightly but firmly.

“Why not, Cecile?” He spoke quietly, but as though he meant to have an

answer.

“I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t want—”

“Well, think about it now,” he told her gently. “Think whether you feel
you could love me and live happily with me for the rest of your life.”

“Oh, Gregory—” It was almost a wail, and she hid her face against him
for a moment.

“What, darling?” He put his cheek down against her hair. “It’s nothing to
cry about, you know.”
 “But—” she grasped at the hateful necessity which Felicity had forced
upon her—“I hate hurting you. And I—I have to. Because I’m going to say
—no.”

“You mean you don’t love me?”

“I can’t marry you, Gregory. It—it wouldn’t do at all. I like you, but—”

“I asked—do you not love me?”

She struggled against the necessity of absolute denial. It would be like

betraying her very soul to say she did not love him, and a sort of
superstitious dread held her silent.

“Is it so difficult to say?”

“You must give me time—I don’t want to—to commit myself. I can’t help
feeling—”

“ You shall have all the time in the world. Only I was so sure that you did
love me, and that you knew it. I suppose,” he said slowly, “when one has an
overwhelming revelation oneself, it’s impossible to believe that one’s
beloved doesn’t share it. Don’t look like that, my love. Have I scared you?”

“No—no.” She put up her hand against his cheek for a moment, in a
tender little gesture, for she simply could not bear to have him look worried
and puzzled. “It’s just—” She stopped helplessly, and he said:

“Do you mean you are scared about something else? Or someone else?”

“Oh, no—no,” she cried again. She knew she was doing this badly, and
that if Felicity could have seen her now she would have considered that the
bargain was being poorly kept.

“Then why do you look so frightened?”

“I’m not frightened, Gregory.” She made a supreme effort, and even
smiled faintly. “I was—startled, if you like. I hadn’t expected to be
proposed to twice in one day and—”

“What was the other one?”

“I told you. Uncle Algernon wanted me to say—”

“Oh, that!” He dismissed Uncle Algernon and his proposition scornfully.

But, because it represented the only basis on which she could build any sort
of defence, Cecile refused to let it be brushed aside.

“It isn’t so absurd as you think. I’m very fond of Maurice. And although
of course I don’t take Uncle Algernon’s suggestion very seriously, there—
there’s more to it than that.”
 “More to what?” enquired Gregory, with terrifying exactness.

“I mean I do like Maurice. And I know he likes me. And though it’s too
early to be positive yet, I think—I mean it might be possible—” Her voice
trailed away, and after a moment Gregory asked drily.

“Are you trying to tell me that you might consider marrying Maurice
Deeping?”

“N—I don’t know. I won’t be badgered like this! You have no right to ask
such a question when he hasn’t even asked it himself yet.”

“Very well. I ask you the same question about myself. I have a right to ask
that. Do you love me, Cecile?”

“Please, Gregory—”

“Answer me, Cecile,” he said quietly. “It’s a very simple question.”

“I don’t know, I tell you!”

“Of course you know.” He kissed her compellingly.

“Well, then—” a vision of Felicity’s cold, watchful eyes rose before her
—“I don’t love you.”
 “You’re lying,” he said, and he was very pale. But he let her go. “I told
you once before—you’re a bad liar, Cecile. You do love me, but for some
reason best known to yourself, you want to deny it. Why, I wonder—why?”
He spoke half to himself, and she was immediately terrified lest he
contrived to do what his mother had called some inspired guessing.

“I’m not lying.” She whipped herself into seeming anger, and she thought
her voice carried cold conviction. “The fact is that you simply will not
accept an answer you don’t like. You’re conceited and arrogant, and you
can’t imagine that someone should not be in love with you.”

“That isn’t true.” He spoke quietly and without any sign of answering
anger. “I didn’t expect you to love me, Cecile. I think I was quite humbly
happy when I felt sure that you did and I am not, as you say,” he flashed her
an amused smile, “a humble man by nature. It is not self-confidence which
makes me believe you love me. It is knowledge of human nature. Only I
don’t know why you should deny it.”

He frowned considerably, and she was irresistibly reminded of him in

Court, just before cross-examination.

“Please let go—” She was terribly frightened, but she managed to force a
nervous little laugh. “I don’t know how we have come to be involved in
such a desperately serious discussion—all because of Uncle Algernon’s
silly idea.”
 “You mean I spoke too soon?”

“Yes— No—It wouldn’t be any good, anyway.”

“Cecile, don’t be so final!” He looked taken aback again. “It’s as though

something stronger than yourself is making you turn away from me. What’s
the matter, child? Why aren’t we friends any longer? Is it—” he narrowed
his eyes slightly, in a speculative manner—“something to do with Laurie?”

“No, no!” She was absolutely panic-stricken, as he seemed to brush the

very fringe of her miserable secret.

“But I think perhaps it is.”

“No, it’s not!” Sheer desperation enabled her to make that sound
convincing. “And you are drawing the most absurd conclusions, anyway.
I’m not—unfriendly, Gregory. It’s just that—that I don’t want to be forced
into admissions, when I don’t even know my own mind yet.”

He smiled.

“If you don’t know your own mind, my darling, there is no need for you
to be so final about the uselessness of my pleading my cause another time,”
he pointed out.
 She saw she would have to withdraw that and temporize. “I didn’t quite
mean that, I suppose. I was—angry and a bit—frightened, I think.”

“I’m sorry.” He held out his hand to her, with his most winning smile.
“Forgive me. It seems I’m not so good at handling my own cause as those
of my clients.”

“Oh, Gregory—it’s all right—” She put her hand into his, and somehow
resisted the desire to fling herself into his arms. “We both got rather hot
over nothing, I think.”

“Did we? Is that really how it struck you?” He smiled at her quizzically,
and she felt herself blush. But he did not pursue the subject further, and
presently they both went down to his car. All the way to the restaurant,
where they were to meet the others, Cecile tried to chat normally and to
seem at ease. But her conversation sounded strained, even to her own ears,
and her heart ached so much that her head ached too. But for the fact that
this supper party had been arranged for her own special pleasure, she would
have made any sort of excuse and turned back home again.

When they reached the restaurant—an unpretentious but very pleasant-

looking Italian place—they found that a table had been reserved for the
theatre party, and that they were expected at any minute. Indeed, even as
the information was being given, the door opened again, and in came
Sydney Manning and Laurie, followed by Sir Lucas and one or two other
people.
 There were introductions all round, and then Cecile found herself sitting
between Sir Lucas himself and someone who was introduced as Theo
Letterton. A name which she remembered as one in the cast of the play,
though she could not recall which part he had taken.

“You wouldn’t. It’s quite a small one,” he told her with a smile, when she
admitted this. “I play the not very successful blackmailer, who is
somewhere back in Laurie’s past. On the stage, of course,” he added, which
made Cecile realize that she must have looked momentarily startled.

“Yes—yes, of course.” She laughed breathlessly. “I remember you now.

You were awfully good. So sinister that I couldn’t possibly connect the
character with you in real life.”

“Thank you.” He smiled at her, with knowledgeable but kindly eyes,

which had a good many lines round them. “But I’m not so sure that real-life
blackmailers are specially sinister, are you?”

“I—hadn’t thought about it. One doesn’t expect to meet them, in the
ordinary way.”

“Not the kind who make a living out of it, I suppose.” He stroked back his
greying hair reflectively. “But there are quite a lot of people who exercise a
spot of social blackmail—even if it’s only the emotional kind. They use the
influence of their knowledge or the influence of their affection to force their
wishes.”
 “I suppose you’re right,” Cecile agreed. But she was glad that Sir Lucas
chose that moment to engage her in conversation, in his turn.

“Laurie tells me you are looking for an office job,” he said, coming
straight to the point with the good-humoured directness which
characterized most of his dealings with people.

“I shall be, in about a month’s time,” Cecile agreed eagerly.

“Any specially high standard of attainments?” he enquired.

“No. I wouldn’t claim that.” Cecile matched his candour with her own. “I
expect to be able to take down shorthand pretty rapidly and to type it back
accurately, and also to be able to write letters in French and German—and
to translate from Italian, though not to be able to reply in it.”

“Quite an impressive array of talent.” Sir Lucas smiled. “I am afraid

anything I might be able to offer would not employ all that.”

“It doesn’t matter! I’d simply love to work in your office,” Cecile
declared.

“Why?” he enquired. And although the one word was quite kindly spoken,
in his tone was the undoubted fact that Sir Lucas Manning was able to deal
with all manifestations of hero-worship or stage-struck aspirations which
might come his way.
 “Because I think you would be a just and kindly employer,” replied Cecile
without hesitation. “And I should like to be employed in the same world as
Laurie. It would give us something in common.”

“Any stage ambitions yourself?” He gave her a shrewd glance, which

would have caused a certain amount of disillusioned fluttering in the Upper
Circle, if they could have seen it.

“Oh, no! Truly, I haven’t.” Cecile was very earnest about that. “I’m not
even very good at acting off-stage,” she added, with a regretful sigh which
seemed to amuse her host.

“Why? Have you been trying it?”

“Not exactly.” But irresistibly her glance went to Gregory, who was
sitting beside Laurie and apparently getting on very well with her.

“I see,” said Sir Lucas. And Cecile was left wondering very much what he
did see.

But before she could ask, he changed the subject and said, “You know,
you are very good for Laurie, Cecile. I hope I may call you Cecile?”

“Oh, yes, please do. And I’m glad you think that.” Cecile smiled. “Would
you tell me why you think it?”
 “She has changed quite a lot since you came.” Sir Lucas looked reflective.
“She was always a good artist and a loyal colleague. But she was not a
happy person, and a sort of bitterness restricted her ability to give out, as an
actress should.”

“Do you know why?” Cecile asked diffidently. “Do you know the—the
story in the background?”

“Not exactly, and please don’t tell me,” replied Sir Lucas, with
uncompromising frankness. “It’s always best not to know too much of the
private lives of one’s cast. Though lord, how hard some of them try to tell
one!” he added in rueful parenthesis. “Not Laurie, however. She was
always blessedly reticent.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Cecile assured him gravely. “I just wondered
if you knew.”

“Only that whatever it was made her a disillusioned and often difficult
person. That was why I was so startled and nonplussed when you popped
up in the vestibule of my own theatre, looking like a younger edition of
Laurie herself and announcing your relationship, with that air of cool
innocence that would be worth five thousand a year to a stage ingénue.”

Cecile laughed.

“I didn’t feel cool.”

 “You were terrifyingly determined too,” he told her, half teasingly. “I
knew I was beaten, from the word ‘go.’ The Rock of Gibralter would have
been easy to move, compared to you.”

“Oh, Sir Lucas, you’re exaggerating!”

“A little. That is the privilege of all stage personalities,” he assured her

with his famous smile. “But you were right to insist, of course. Whatever
you determinedly brought into Laurie’s life was just what she needed. She
is a happier woman and a better artist because you came.”

“Oh—thank you.” Cecile smiled, though she was a good deal moved too.
And, glancing across at her mother, she thought that it was worth even the
anxiety and the heartache she had just experienced to keep Laurie looking
happy.

It was Gregory, however, who met her glance. And, as he smiled at her,
she felt all her resolution crumbling, and the pendulum of her emotions
swung the other way.

Was anything worth the sacrifice of Gregory’s happiness—and her own?

And, suppose Felicity actually succeeded eventually in her machinations
and drew Gregory back into her orbit—what sort of life was he going to
have then?
 She sighed impatiently. But then Sir Lucas looked at her so quizzically
that she forced herself to remember once more that this was supposed to be
her party of pleasure. And, for the rest of the evening, she managed to give
at least a very good imitation of enjoying herself immensely.

Later, over coffee, when some of the party changed places, in order to talk
to different people, she found young Lady Manning beside her. She was
looking very beautiful and serene, and curiously without cares. There was
something infinitely soothing about such tranquility, and Cecile found
herself asking impulsively, “Is it easy being married to a famous actor?
Most people have the idea that it’s difficult to live in the shadow of a great
personality. But that isn’t the impression you give at all.”

Sydney Manning laughed.

“It’s easy being married to Lucas, because I love him and he loves me,”
she explained, with touching simplicity. “Everything else follows naturally
after that. We have our surface troubles and our ups and downs, like other
people, of course. But basically—all’s well. Is that what you meant?”

“I suppose so.” Cecile sighed without knowing it. “Then you mean that, if
one is married to the right person, almost nothing else matters?”

“Yes. I think I’d say that.” The other girl looked reflective. Then she
smiled suddenly and rather mischievously. “But one has to make certain it
is the right person first, and sometimes there’s a bad patch until one is sure.
I nearly married someone quite different from Lucas.”

“Not really?” Cecile was intrigued, for she could not have imagined these
two apart and connected with anyone else.

“Indeed I did. I tore myself to ribbons about it at the time,” declared Lady
Manning, looking very happy and secure. “But now I know that I had—not
a lucky escape, because the other man was a very nice fellow too, but the
good fortune to have time to think again.”

“How very nice.” Cecile could not help smiling at Lucas Manning’s wife.
“You somehow make one feel that things do tend to come out all right in
the end, when you talk like that.”

“Do you need some reassurance on that point?” enquired Sydney

Manning, with an unexpectedly penetrating glance from those lovely grey-
blue eyes of hers.

“Why, no—yes— How did you know?”

“Because once or twice during the evening you looked as my small

stepson does when he unexpectedly finds that the world is not his own great
big beautiful oyster,” Lady Manning said, with a smile.
 “Oh—” Cecile laughed doubtfully. “I can’t tell you why, but it’s perfectly
true that—that—”

“You don’t have to tell me why,” Sydney Manning said very kindly. “But
shall I tell you something?”

“If you like.” Cecile smiled fascinatedly back into those dancing eyes.

“I think Gregory Picton is one of the very nicest people I know. And I’m
perfectly sure he has got over Felicity Waring long ago. Does that help?”

“I don’t know,” said Cecile frankly. “But it was very sweet of you to say
it.”

“Though it still leaves you in a state of worried indecision?” Lady

Manning looked reflective.

“Sometimes one—one simply does not know what to do for the best,”
Cecile murmured half to herself.

“No,” the other girl agreed. “But that is the moment when one should be
frank with the one person who matters. Why don’t you take him into your
confidence about whatever is troubling you?”

“I couldn’t!” Cecile looked aghast. “He’s the one person I couldn’t tell.”
 “Why not?” Lady Manning was quite calm about that. “If you love
someone, you must trust their reactions, in any circumstances.”

“Why—” Cecile stared at her, as though a light were breaking over her,
“perhaps—you’re—right. Perhaps I have been too much afraid of his
reaction.”

“Think it over,” Sydney Manning said kindly. And then the party began to
break up, with goodnights all round.

Cecile found, a little to her surprise and a good deal to her

disappointment, that it was Theo Letterton and not Gregory who was to
take Laurie and herself home.

True, if she were to find new ways of driving a wedge between herself
and Gregory, the less she saw of him the better. But, at Sydney Manning’s
considered last words, something like hope had stirred afresh in Cecile’s
heart, though she could not, as yet, see just how she could apply them to
her own tangled affairs.

As it was, she said a pleasant, non-committal goodnight to Gregory, just

as she did to all the others. And, having thanked the Mannings very warmly
for their kindness and hospitality, she went out with her mother to Theo
Letterton’s car.
 Laurie went in front with Theo Letterton, and Cecile, in the seat behind,
leaned back and watched the two of them idly while she thought about
Gregory.

“If you love someone,” Sydney Manning had said, “you must trust their
reactions—in any circumstances.”

Perhaps she had not trusted enough to Gregory’s love and generosity. She
had imagined until now that his anger and disillusionment would be
inevitable if once she had known him as a stern and ruthless judge. His love
was new and his bitterness was old. It had been natural to fear the result if
one were weighed against the other.

But now, in the light of what young Lady Manning had said, she began to
wonder if she had despaired too soon.

If Gregory truly loved her—and how could she doubt it, trembling, as she
did even now, at the remembered pain and joy of the way he had held her
and kissed her?—if he loved her and wanted her to share his life with him,
surely she owed it to him to be frank.

She looked again at her mother, sitting in front, and noticed, without
attaching any significance to the fact, that Laurie’s bright head was very
close to the distinguished, greying head of her companion, and she was
laughing happily about something, as though she had not a care in the
world.
 “Dare I risk everything, when I would not myself be the chief loser?”
thought Cecile.

And yet—the exquisite relief of telling Gregory herself!—disarming

Felicity for good and all. It was almost irresistible. For how much better she
could make the story sound if she told it herself.

She would say, “Gregory, I have decided to be frank with you. I do love
you, my darling. But I can’t marry you without admitting to you that there
exists some evidence that Laurie was nearly as guilty as you supposed. The
evidence is contained in some letters which have come into Felicity’s hands
by a miserable mischance. She intends to use them if—”

Here Cecile faltered in her mental speech for the defence. She was not
sure that, even now, she could betray Felicity’s baseness in all its ugly
detail. But there would be some way round that. She would fine some
wording in which to describe the cruel pressure on herself without entirely
betraying Felicity’s unscrupulous method of trying to force her out of
Gregory’s life.

Then, she thought, she would go on. “If Felicity is really angry, she will
show those letters to you, in the belief that it will make you hate and
despise Laurie afresh and turn away from me. Can you be generous enough
—even great enough—to take those letters and burn them unread? If so, I
can marry you, Gregory. If not—it may mean the end of all our happiness.”
 She was astonished to find to what heights of mental eloquence she had
risen. It seemed suddenly that the way lay clear ahead. Sydney Manning
had been right! One must trust the reactions of the beloved in any
circumstances.

Why should she suppose that Gregory was not equal to the test? And if he
were not—that would be the moment to lose him. Not now—without a
fight.

Hope and confidence flared up within her. Though they wavered

nervously again when she glanced back at the two in front. It would be
Laurie’s happiness and peace of mind she would be risking, even more than
her own.

Could Laurie possibly sustain the shock and humiliation if Gregory

proved unequal to the test? Suppose all the old bitterness returned and he
upbraided her and told her that those letters of hers had not only driven his
sister to her death, but ruined all chances of Cecile and him being happy
together?

For a moment, she trembled at the thought. And then—so persistently did
hope raise its battered head again—she told herself that she simply could
not imagine Gregory behaving in such a way. Perhaps—

But before she could find yet another alternative, they arrived home, and
Theo Letterton was handing Laurie out of the car, and had come round to
open the door for Cecile.

“Goodnight, my dear.” He clasped her hand warmly and smiled down at

her in such a friendly way that Cecile felt sincerely glad he had been added
to her circle of friends. “It has been a great pleasure to meet Laurie’s
daughter.”

“It was a very happy occasion for me too,” Cecile assured him. “I hope
we shall meet often.”

“Do you?” He held her hand for a second longer. “It’s rather important to
me to hear you say that, you know. Perhaps you have guessed why.”

She had done nothing of the sort, of course. And, immersed as she was in
her own affairs, she looked completely nonplussed for a moment. Then
suddenly she caught sight of Laurie, standing there smiling and looking
incredibly young and eager in the light from the nearby street lamp.

And, with a shock of mingled pleasure and apprehension, the truth burst
upon her all at once. This pleasant man, with the kindly eyes and the
distinguished air, loved her mother. Perhaps had known and loved her for a
very long time.

And because, for the first time in years and years, Laurie was slowly
emerging from the shadows of her own folly and despair, he was daring to
hope—she was daring to hope—that perhaps, after all, happiness lay
waiting for them just round the corner.

“Why, how lovely!” Courageously, Cecile turned a deaf ear to what

sounded like her own new-found hopes crashing to the ground. “I—hadn’t
guessed anything yet—”

“And it’s too early to start doing so now,” Laurie put in. “Equally, it’s too
late for us to stand talking here in the street. Goodnight, Theo dear. It was a
wonderful evening. Let go of Cecile’s hand, and don’t practise being
fatherly until I give you the word.”

But she laughed as she spoke, and Cecile saw her exchange a smile of
complete understanding with Theo Letterton before she turned and went
into the house.

“Goodnight—and good luck,” Cecile whispered, before she pulled away

her hand and ran after her mother. But she felt a hundred years old, and
indescribably weary, as she followed Laurie up the stairs.

Once in the flat, however, she forced a smile of eager and affectionate
interest to her lips and exclaimed:

“He’s so nice, Laurie! And he does mean that he wants to marry you,
doesn’t he?”
 “He has wanted to for years.” Laurie spoke with elaborate casualness, but
the colour came and went in her cheeks.

“Oh, darling! And you kept him dangling all that time?”

“No. At least—not because I wanted to.” Laurie pushed back her hair with
an agitated hand. “But I couldn’t involve him in—all that. He is a very
decent, upright sort of man, you know.”

“Yes. I see that. But you exaggerate, Laurie. You have done so for years.
Does he know about the past?”

“Only a general idea of what happened. But it’s never the general ideas
that make one wince,” Laurie asserted with bitter knowledge. “It’s the
sordid details.”

Cecile thought of those letters—and the thin, thin ice on which they all
stood. But she said resolutely:

“The details are forgotten long ago.”

“Yes—” Laurie drew a long sigh, almost as though she threw off a burden
—“I’m beginning to believe that now. That’s what you have done for me,
Cecile.”

“I’m glad,” Cecile said huskily.

 “You don’t know how afraid I used to be. I was so wretched, so ashamed
about the past—and always I thought it must rise some day to confound
me. That was why I was shocked, but not entirely surprised, when you first
turned up. I thought you were a menace in those early days. It was only
later that I knew you were a blessing—and the basis of a new confidence.”

“Oh, Mother—” Cecile blinked her lashes, to keep back the tears.

“You are such a hopeful child—and you have a sort of inner strength there
is no explaining.” Her mother touched her cheek suddenly with
unexpectedly gentle fingers. “When you are there, I forget to be afraid.”

“But of what—exactly—have you been afraid?” Cecile took her hand and
held it tightly.

“I don’t know,” Laurie confessed. “I don’t know in quite what form I

expected the danger to come. Hugh might have returned, I suppose. Or
someone who knew the story might have broadcast it afresh, out of spite or
a love of gossip. I don’t know what I feared. But the fear was always there,
until quite lately. But now—” she smiled suddenly, “with even Gregory
Picton friendly, I tell myself it’s absurd to fear. And, for the first time, I am
letting Theo hope.”

“I see,” said Cecile slowly. “I see.”

 But what she really saw was that it was quite impossible now for her to
risk telling Gregory the truth. Even if she won him to her side, she would
have to reckon with a furious and frustrated Felicity, seeking for revenge.
And, with Gregory contemptuously indifferent, it would not take her long
to realize that the man to whom she must hand the letters was Theo
Letterton.
 CHAPTER X

“You look tired, darling,” Cecile heard her mother say. And with an effort
she wrenched herself back from the melancholy task of bidding a silent
farewell to Gregory in her own mind.

“Yes. It’s been a long day. And—and Uncle Algernon was rather trying.”

“In what way?” Laurie wanted to know.

“Oh, he offered to leave me fifty thousand pounds—”

“Cecile! What an unusual way of being trying.”

“—Provided I would marry his nephew. Maurice Deeping, you know—

whom you met this morning.”

“He seemed a nice enough fellow. Particularly with fifty thousand pounds
attached. But—he just isn’t the one you want, is he?”

“No.” Cecile knew that quite finally now, and did not hesitate about her
reply. Maurice had been nice to know—he would always be an attractive
friend. But, with or without fifty thousand pounds, he would never be her
choice, even as an agreeable second best.
 “I suppose it’s Gregory Picton?” Laurie sounded a little dissatisfied, but
not as though she would raise opposition.

“Oh—I don’t know,” said Cecile helplessly. And then she kissed her
mother goodnight and went away to bed, for she felt she had reached the
limit of what she could endure.

Sunday was a strangely quiet and uneventful day, spent pleasantly enough
with Laurie. In the afternoon Theo Letterton came and took them out for a
drive, and once more—now alert to the position—Cecile was able to see
how extraordinarily happy Laurie and he were in each other’s company.

“I didn’t need any further evidence, really. I made my decision last night,”
Cecile told herself. But it seemed to her that Gregory was even more
irrevocably lost to her.

The next day, before Laurie had really woken up, Cecile departed for the
business-training college which was to turn her into a suitable applicant for
a post in Sir Lucas Manning’s office.

It was, inevitably, curiously like going back to school. And the Cecile who
typed conscientiously and made the humiliating discovery that shorthand
speed is hard to acquire but fatally easy to lose, seemed an entirely different
person from the Cecile who handled Uncle Algernon with humorous
aplomb, or, still more, the Cecile who loved Gregory Picton but who had to
send him away out of her life.
 Several of the other students were friendly enough, but they seemed to
Cecile so much younger than herself. Not in actual years, but in their depth
of experience of life. They chattered of clothes and boys and film stars—
but all in a very lighthearted, transitory manner, as befitted their age.

When one of them produced an excellent photograph of Sir Lucas

Manning, someone else remarked that he probably looked much older than
that in real life. And at this point Cecile made the error of speaking up.

“No, he doesn’t, really. I know him quite well.”

“You know him?” By the surprise and skepticism in their voices, Cecile
knew that a gulf had opened between them. And later she was half amused
and half chagrined to hear one of the girls say to another, “What do you
suppose she meant by saying she knew Lucas Manning? It doesn’t sound
very likely, does it?”

“No, of course not,” was the scornful reply. “She’s probably just asked
him for his autograph at the stage door—and which of us hasn’t done that?
Showing off, that was what she was doing.”

Cecile took care after that not to make any further reference to her private
affairs. Not even when, towards the end of the week, Gregory made the
newspaper headlines, with a brilliant defence of an unfortunate blind man
who had accidently killed his wife in a fit of well-founded jealousy.
 “He’s a wonderful-looking man, isn’t he?” The girl who had produced the
Lucas Manning photograph sucked in her cheeks admiringly. “He’s usually
the counsellor the prosecution. Cold and sort of deadly. But he must be
wonderful defending.”

“It was a good speech.” Cecile allowed herself to remark that. “Did you
read it?”

“Oh, no.” The other girl looked surprised. “Only the headlines, you know.
But I think he looks wonderful in that photograph of him leaving Court.”

Cecile thought so too. But she managed to keep her thoughts to herself,
and contented herself with a noncommittal smile.

There was a good deal of concentrated work to be done, and Cecile, who
was not used to this kind of routine, found herself thoroughly tired by the
end of each day. She was almost glad that Gregory (engrossed, no doubt, in
his case) did not even telephone her during that first week.

In fact, the only evening engagement she allowed herself was a quiet
dinner with Maurice on the Thursday. And even then she made him bring
her home early.

It was very quiet in the flat when she returned, for Laurie was, of course,
at the theatre. But Cecile never minded her own company and she quite
enjoyed these evenings alone at home. Usually Laurie left some sort of note
if she departed before Cecile appeared—as had been the case once or twice
when she had stayed to do extra work at the college—and on this occasion
too there was a message in Laurie’s unmistakable writing.

“Uncle Algernon rang up. If you get home before ten o’clock will you
telephone him at Blackwater 7585.”

“What does he want, I wonder?” murmured Cecile, half amused, half

apprehensive, as she picked up the receiver and gave the operator the
number.

There was a certain amount of whirring and clicking. Then the thin,
unfriendly tones of Uncle Algernon’s housekeeper replied, and when she
heard who Cecile was, she said in a disapproving sort of way that she
would see if Mr. Deeping would speak to her.

Apparently Mr. Deeping would, because almost immediately Uncle

Algernon’s voice—surprisingly deepened and amplified on the telephone—
said, “Is that you, Cecile?”

“Yes, Uncle Algernon.” She thought she might permit herself this friendly
form of address.

“What are you doing on Saturday?”

 Cecile did not even have to review her plans. “Nothing in particular,” she
said. “Laurie will be at the theatre in the afternoon and evening, and I
expect I shall have a quiet day.”

“Well, then, you’d better come down here.”

“Would you like me to?”

“I shouldn’t have asked you otherwise,” was the characteristically

gracious reply.

“I suppose not.” Cecile could not help smiling across at her own reflection
in the mirror opposite, as though she shared the joke with someone. Then
she remembered Felicity and her expression changed. “Will Felicity still be
there?” she enquired candidly.

“No. Why? Don’t you get on with her?”

“Not specially,” said Cecile drily. “But I’d like to come if I see only you.
What train shall I catch? And can someone meet me at the station? It’s
rather a long walk, isn’t it?”

“No need for that,” declared Uncle Algernon. “Gregory Picton is coming
down to see me. You had better get him to give you a lift.”
 “Gregory?” A sort of scared happiness sounded in her voice, and she saw
the sudden flush and sparkle in the face reflected opposite her. “Why is he
coming down? I mean—I didn’t know that he was in the habit of visiting
you.”

“He isn’t. But we’re fellow-trustees, aren’t we?”

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. Is he coming to discuss my affairs?”

“Among other things—among other things,” replied Uncle Algernon, in a

tone which reduced her affairs to paltry insignificance. “Ring up Gregory
and make the arrangements. I’ll expect you both about three.”

“But—wait a moment—if he hasn’t made any sort of suggestion about it

himself—”

“There are the ‘pips’. Don’t waste money on idle conversation,” said
Uncle Algernon, whose income would not have been appreciably altered if
he had telephoned nightly to Buenos Aires. And then he rang off.

Cecile sat there for a moment or two longer, the receiver still in her hand.

She longed to snatch at this chance of making some contact with Gregory
again. And yet, she knew, she should resist the temptation. She ought to
send a postcard to Uncle Algernon, saying she had had to alter her plans.
But the thought of some hours with Gregory—alone in the car—was
something she simply could not reject.

After all, if she were careful and clever—

Cecile had dialled the number before she had finished enumerating to
herself the reasons for doing so, and Gregory’s deep, faintly lazy voice said
in her ear,

“Hello—St. James’s 42420.”

“Gregory! This is Cecile speaking.”

“Cecile, my dear—” the laziness was no longer evident, “how very good
to hear from you. Forgive me for not ringing myself before now. I’ve been
confoundedly busy on a case.”

“Yes, of course. I know. I read all about it in the papers. You did
wonderfully, Gregory.”

“Well, I got my client off on a capital charge,” he agreed, and she knew he
was smiling.

“I wish I could have been in court.”

“I’m glad you were not. It was a sad and harrowing case.”
 “But I mean—I should have liked to hear you defend, instead of
prosecute, for once.”

He laughed a good deal at that.

“So you shall, my darling, one of these days, when it is a suitable case,”
he promised. And somehow he made it sound deliciously as though there
would always be a close contact between them, so that she was silent for a
moment, basking in the sunshine of a purely artificial contentment.

“Did you want to ask anything special, Cecile?”

“Oh, yes! Uncle Algernon telephoned to say you were going down there
on Saturday. He suggested I should come too.”

“But of course! That’s a wonderful idea. And I tell you what we’ll do,
Cecile. I’m going down to my mother’s place tomorrow evening. She has
been pressing me to bring you down again. Get Laurie to lend you to us for
once. You can stay the night, and I’ll drive you over to old Deeping’s place
on the Saturday, without going back into London at all.”

“Oh, Gregory—” it sounded so beautiful that she could not keep the
happiness out of her voice—“but I think—I mean, your mother won’t be
expecting me—and it’s rather a long time to be away—and—”
 “Nonsense! I’ll telephone to Mother, telling her to expect us both. I can
guarantee that she’ll be delighted. And Laurie won’t mind your being away
for one night, surely?”

It would be ridiculous to pretend that she would, of course. And there was
nothing—absolutely nothing—which Cecile could oppose to the plan.
Except that Felicity would be furious if she ever knew. And this was
something one could not put into words.

“Is it arranged?” There was a sort of humorous impatience in Gregory’s

voice.

“Yes, Gregory—it’s arranged!” She wondered if she sounded as wildly

and guiltily happy as she looked in the mirror opposite. Apparently she did.
For she heard him laugh and say:

“It’s a very harmless and unexciting outing, really. But we’ll love to have
you.”

Then he arranged to call for her the following evening, and he rang off,
without giving her an opportunity to think of any reason for altering her
plans.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have agreed—but it’s wonderful!”

 She walked about the flat, hugging herself in her joy, and talking aloud in
her anxiety. “If Felicity knew—But then how should she know? And,
anyway, I can’t just make a clean, unexplained break without causing the
most searching comment and enquiry. I simply have to build up a way of—
of rejecting him gradually—”

But she knew this particular form of rejection would be extraordinarily

difficult to justify, if one were ever put to it.

Laurie completely approved of the plan, and seemed only too glad that
Cecile was to have a break.

“You’ve worked hard this week, darling. It will do you good to get out
into the country for a bit,” she declared. And, on the following evening, she
even risked being a little late at the theatre, in order to welcome Gregory
and tell him how glad she was that he and his mother should have Cecile
for the night.

In the end, they drove down to the theatre first, dropped Laurie off at the
stage door, and then continued on their journey. The soft sunshine and the
clear evening sky accorded so perfectly with their mood of content that
they talked rather little on the way down—simply enjoying the drive, with
that happy, wordless communion of spirit which comes only to those who
are very close together.
 Nothing could have exceeded the warmth and kindliness of Mrs. Picton’s
welcome. She kissed Cecile as she might have kissed her own Anne, and as
she wafted her upstairs to the pretty guest-room, there was, Cecile thought,
an air of suppressed satisfaction, and even excitement, about her which was
singularly engaging and youthful.

“I’ve been so eager to have you here again, Cecile,” she said, “and you
don’t know how pleased I was when Gregory telephoned to say he was
bringing you.”

“Dear Mrs. Picton,” Cecile looked round the room, so pleasantly and
personally prepared for her, “you are really too kind. You make me feel
completely at home. And though I’ve been here only once before—”

“That doesn’t make the least difference,” Mrs. Picton assured her. “We
understood each other from the beginning. Didn’t you feel that too?”

“Indeed, yes.” Cecile smiled at her, and wondered how one was ever to
retreat from all this kindness and family acceptance.

“That’s why I can say to you—” a sparkling and slightly conspiratorial

smile came over her hostess’s face, “that I have something to show you.”

“Really?” Cecile looked amused and slightly mystified.

“Yes. Come with me.”

 Mrs. Picton led the way along the upstairs passage to Gregory’s room at
the end. The door was open and the room was empty. She went no further
than the doorway, but there she stood, with Cecile beside her, and said in a
tone of deep satisfaction, “You see.”

Cecile looked in.

“Well—no. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“It’s gone,” said Mrs. Picton succinctly.

And then Cecile saw that indeed “it” had gone. Felicity no longer smiled
coldly from the dressing-table.

“Oh!”

“Yes.” Mrs. Picton nodded in a satisfied manner. “He took it away last
time he was here. I don’t know what he did with it, and of course,” she said
wistfully, “one cannot ask. But he no longer likes to have her looking at
him. A very good sign. Take your time, dear, and come down when you are
ready. Dinner won’t be ready for another twenty minutes yet.”

Left alone in her own room, Cecile spent some minutes sitting on the
window seat and gazing out into the very beautiful garden. But what she
saw was the empty space in Gregory’s dressing-table—silent witness of the
fact that, for good or ill, Felicity’s star had waned.
 It was a delightful evening, with Gregory in a relaxed and amusing mood,
and Mrs. Picton frankly happy to have them both there. She asked several
things about Gregory’s recent case, with a depth of professional knowledge
which made Cecile wish she knew more.

But at no time was she allowed to feel out of it, in any way. And when
dinner was over, and Gregory went to his study to attend to some urgent
letters, Mrs. Picton took her into the garden, and discoursed to her on her
flowers and her plants, as though it went without saying that Cecile would
be interested in whatever happened there.

And Cecile was.

“It’s so peaceful and lovely and gracious here,” Cecile exclaimed. “It’s as
though one had always known the place.”

“Yes, yes. I knew you would fit in perfectly, from the first moment,”
Gregory’s mother replied. And it was the contented significance in her
voice which brought Cecile back to the inescapable falseness of her
position—and the knowledge that she simply could not go on sinking
further and further into a position which Mrs. Picton would obviously like
her to occupy, but which her bargain with Felicity absolutely precluded.

“It’s sweet of you to—to say it like that.” Cecile heard the nervousness in
her own voice. “But, you know, you mustn’t—plan or—or count on
anything. I mean—”
 “I love planning,” replied her hostess, unmoved. “And, though I wouldn’t
be so impertinent as to count on anything which was not within my own
power to decide, even the least interfering of mothers is entitled to have her
hopes, you know.”

“Mrs. Picton—” Cecile pressed her hands together in her agitation—“you

mustn’t even hope. Really you mustn’t. There is nothing—there can’t be
anything—” Her voice trailed away, and for a moment there was silence.

Then Mrs. Picton spoke. “Why not, my dear? Aren’t you fond of
Gregory?”

“I think he is the dearest and most wonderful person on earth,” replied

Cecile, because she simply had to say it to someone, and who better than
his mother?

“Well,” Mrs. Picton gave a relieved little laugh, “I don’t know what we
are worrying about, then.”

“It’s something I can’t explain—something which doesn’t concern my

feelings for him or—or—anything like that. It’s—well, it’s something I
can’t explain,” she repeated helplessly, already aware that she should never
have embarked on this conversation.

Again there was a silence, a longer one this time. Then Mrs. Picton said
quietly:
 “Is it because your mother is Laurie Cavendish?”

“Mrs. Picton!” Cecile stared at her aghast. “How did you know?”

“Simply by asking Gregory her name, of course.”

“Yes, but—but—You don’t know the significance of the name, do you?

The—the part she played in your—family’s history?”

“Yes, my dear, of course I do. Gregory doesn’t think I do, and neither did
his father. Men never think women know about things. They spend a lot of
time and trouble protecting us, as they think, from knowledge which we are
far better able to bear than they are themselves. Nice men, I mean, of
course,” she added in kindly parenthesis. “I knew perfectly well what part
Laurie Cavendish was supposed to play in my poor Anne’s death.”

“Did you know all along?”

“No. Not until I came back to England a year or two later. Then of course
a kind friend told me. There are always kind friends ready to make us a
present of that sort of knowledge.”

“But—but how can you take it so calmly? How can you b-be so kind to
me?” stammered Cecile, and the tears came into her eyes.
 “My dear, dear child, do you really think anyone could suppose you carry
the responsibility for something done when you were four years old—or
whatever it was?”

“Not responsibility—no. But a—a sort of taint. An inevitable connection

which one can’t overlook.”

“Nonsense,” was the kind but very firm reply.

“I can’t understand.” Cecile brushed away bewildered tears with the back
of her hand. “You speak almost as though you—you hardly blame Laurie
either.”

“My dear, someone once said—I have forgotten who, but he must have
been very wise—that even God does not judge until the score is complete. I
don’t know how much or how little your mother was to blame. But I knew
Hugh Minniver quite well, and though I was very fond of him—one could
not be otherwise—I know that he was perfectly capable of pursuing a
selfish, hard and even cruel path without any pressure from anyone else.
Why, then, should I assume that the blame is all someone else’s?”

Cecile thought of the fatal letters. But even they could not spoil her
moment of relief and joy. She flung her arms round Anne’s mother and
kissed her.
 “You dear, good, generous woman!” she cried. “I could love you for that
alone.”

“Well, well—” Mrs. Picton patted her head and kissed her in return,
deeply touched but practical still, “I hope you always will. Does what I
have told you help your problem?”

“I don’t know,” Cecile confessed. “I can only tell you that such loving
generosity helps everyone to see things more clearly and steadily.”

“Then try not to worry,” Mrs. Picton said. “And remember that my
Gregory can be generous and loving too.”

“I will,” Cecile promised. “I will.” And although this conversation did not
in any way affect the Theo Letterton problem, somehow Cecile felt that the
situation was much less terrible than she had supposed.

Quieter in her mind, she slept dreamlessly and restfully that night, happy
in the knowledge that Gregory was under the same roof with her. And when
they left the next morning, she hugged Mrs. Picton as she might have
hugged her own mother.

“It was a wonderful, wonderful visit,” she told Gregory, as they drove
away. “I couldn’t have had a happier time.”

He turned his head and smiled at her.

 “I hope you will come often, Cecile,” he said. But fortunately he did not
elaborate on future plans. For, if he had done so, Cecile simply did not
know what she could have said that would not have been untruthful or
ungrateful or both.

They stopped for lunch on the way, and lingered pleasantly in the garden
of a country inn. But even so they arrived at Erriton Hall earlier than they
had been expected, and were informed by the housekeeper that Mr.
Deeping was finishing his after-luncheon nap.

“Perhaps you would like to go into the small drawing room, sir?” She was
much more gracious to Gregory than she ever was to Maurice, Cecile
noticed—possibly because he was unlikely to figure in any of Uncle
Algernon’s wills.

She still gave the impression of hardly noticing that Cecile was there,
however, and when she had conducted them to the pleasant room
overlooking the terrace, it was to Gregory exclusively that she said:

“You will find the daily papers on that table.”

When she had gone, Gregory grinned, turned over the newspapers and
remarked.

“I thought so. She doesn’t know of the existence of anything below the
intellectual level of the Guardian. Well, well—I don’t think we shall be
reduced to reading the daily papers. Tell me, instead—” he turned suddenly
to face Cecile, “just why you sounded so—moved, I think is the word—
when you spoke of the way you had enjoyed your very brief visit to us.”

“Mostly because of your mother, I think. She is such a wonderful woman,

Gregory. I don’t wonder,” Cecile added with naive candour, and no sense of
the part she was supposed to be playing, “that she had you for a son.”

“My dear girl! Spare my blushes.” Gregory laughed. “Without bringing

me into it, I think we can agree on your other statement. Mother is a very
remarkable woman, besides being a darling.”

“Yes. Did you know—” suddenly Cecile had to tell him—“that she did
find out about Laurie? Not only about her being my mother, I mean. But
about her—her possible connection with Anne’s death?”

“She did?” Gregory walked up the room and back again. “How do you
know? Did she say so?”

“Yes—she told me.”

“How did she tell you, Cecile?" he asked curiously. “Sadly? Bitterly?
What did she say?”

“She quoted someone. I don’t know who. But she said that even God
doesn’t judge until the score is complete. I never heard anyone speak so
kindly or so objectively of someone who was possibly responsible for a
terrible injury. It made me hope that I could be as generous if I ever had to
forgive someone.”

“Oh, Cecile—” he put out his hand, took hers and drew her gently to her
feet—“my little Cecile—I’m afraid you did me much more than justice
when you said I was a fitting son for her. You must see for yourself that I’m
not half as big and generous as she. Don’t you remember—”

But she put her hand softly against his lips.

“Let’s not remember anything harsh or unkind. I only remember that, in

the end, you did take Laurie’s outstretched hand, and that you have been
good and kind and friendly to her since.”

“That doesn’t seem very much to do for the girl one loves.” His lips were
against her hair now, and she knew that she ought to move away before his
arms were round her. But then it was too late—and she was leaning there in
the circle of his arms, happy and frightened, joyful and despairing.

“Darling, did Mother take you on a tour of the house again?”

“No. Of course not. Why should she?”

“I had an idea she had something she wanted to show you. Didn’t she
even show you my room again?”
 “Oh—that? Yes, she did pause in the doorway and—and point out that
Felicity’s photograph was gone.”

He laughed outright then.

“And did she tell you—which is certainly the truth—that with that
photograph went all the memories and affection that had ever been
connected with Felicity? I don’t know why I kept it there so long when it
had come to mean so little. But it is gone now. And you must know, better
than anyone, Cecile, whose photograph I want in its place.”

“Oh, Gregory—” she began in frightened protest.

“Don’t be so hard on me.”

“Oh, I’m not hard! I’m not—only—” And suddenly she knew that she
could keep up this pretence no longer. She flung her arms round him and
buried her face against his shoulder.

For a long minute there was silence. Then he kissed her and said,
teasingly but tenderly,

“Well, do I get that photograph—to replace the one of Felicity, which

means nothing any longer?”
 “Gregory—” She raised her head—and then her voice died in her throat,
choked by the most acute terror she had ever known.

For she was looking past him to the french windows which led into the
garden, and there, framed in the doorway, stood Felicity, regarding the
scene with an expression which showed that she had heard exactly what he
had said.
 CHAPTER XI

For a moment longer Cecile stared back at Felicity, as though she were
some terrible apparition—which, indeed, in a sense, she was. Then Felicity
stepped aside and was gone.

“Cecile, what’s the matter?”

Gregory must have felt her stiffen, for he looked down at her anxiously.
And then, since she was still gazing past him at the empty doorway, he
turned his head.

“Nothing is the matter,” she said, and to her surprise, her voice sounded
quite normal.

“But you look as though you’d seen a ghost.”

“Perhaps I did.” She passed her hands over her face, and felt that her
cheeks were cold. “I think Felicity is in the garden, Gregory.”

“Damn,” said Gregory, softly but with feeling.

“Uncle Algernon said she wouldn’t be here. Either she has come, by some
—some horrid mischance, or else he didn’t tell the truth. It would be like
him. He loves to create awkward situations. I think we won’t discuss things
any longer, Gregory. This isn’t quite the place for it.”

“I agree,” he said grimly. “I’m sorry, darling. Don’t look like that. It’s
embarrassing, of course, but there’s nothing to be scared about.”

“No?” She smiled at him wanly, and thought how little he knew.

“Of course not!” He took her hand and chafed it gently, as though she
might be cold. “For good or ill, Felicity and I parted ages ago. Neither she
nor I has the least obligation towards the other.”

“No,” she said again, but mechanically.

And then the door opened and Uncle Algernon came in, leaning on the
arm of his manservant.

“You were a bit early,” he remarked hospitably. “I said three o’clock. But
never mind. That’s better than being late. Now, Cecile, you go along into
the garden. Picton and I have some business to discuss. You can come back
in half an hour.”

It was on the tip of Cecile’s tongue to say that nothing would induce her
to go into the garden while there was still the possibility of Felicity’s being
there. But then she thought, with a sort of desperate hope, that she might
have some chance of—not exactly explaining away the situation, but at
least mitigating Felicity’s wrath.

Steps led down from here to the garden, where paths led off in several
directions. Cecile took one of these at random—and three minutes later, she
found herself face to face with Felicity, who was sitting on a stone bench,
set against a wall almost entirely covered by a magnificent peach tree.

In the initial shock of meeting, Cecile found no words. It was Felicity who
spoke first. And what she said was,

“I warned you not to double-cross me, didn’t I?”

“I haven’t double-crossed you,” Cecile insisted eagerly. “I’ve done my

very best, in the most difficult position, but—”

“That’s exactly what it looked like,” was the ironical reply.

“Wait a minute! You must let me explain—”

She paused, and Felicity said, “Yes?” skeptically, so that Cecile wondered
what on earth there was that one could explain.

“Felicity—” she sat down on the bench beside the other girl, “be
reasonable. For heaven’s sake, even be generous! I can’t help it if he loves
me. I’m not going to say I don’t want him to love me. Of course I do. But I
didn’t try to make him. I tried everything on earth to put him off.”

“Including hanging round his neck?”

“I—That was at the very last—when I—I couldn’t keep it up any longer.
Felicity, I don’t know what else I can say to make you believe me, or accept
the situation. He asked me to marry him just a few hours after we had our
—our other conversation. I refused him. I put him off as best I could.”

“Were you refusing him all over again when I saw you just now?”
enquired Felicity contemptuously.

“I tell you—that was when my self-control gave way at last.”

“Strange that I should come along at just that moment.”

“Yes, it was strange,” retorted Cecile, with some spirit. “Uncle Algernon
told me on the telephone that you had left, and that I should not have to see
you here.”

“So you thought it would be safe to come down here with Gregory?”

“That was Uncle Algernon’s idea. He said he would like to see me, and
when I had agreed to come, he told me Gregory was coming down this
afternoon and he had better give me a lift. How do you expect me to talk
myself out of that one, for heaven’s sake?”

“You could have remembered a previous engagement. If that’s your idea

of doing your best in a difficult position, I don’t wonder that you’re more
than half engaged to Gregory by now.”

“I’m not,” said Cecile slowly. “I could be—but I’m not. Because I refused
him.”

“And beckoned him on with the other hand,” Felicity rose to her feet and
stood looking down at Cecile with an expression of cold hatred. “That’s
exactly what I warned you not to do.”

“But I didn’t do it deliberately!”

Felicity was stonily silent, and Cecile dropped her hands heavily in her
lap and looked up at the other girl.

“What are you going to do?” she asked hopelessly.

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. But I can tell you this; whatever I
decide to do, you won’t like it.”

And then, before Cecile could say anything else, she turned and walked
rapidly away toward the house.
 Cecile half rose to her feet, her first impulse being to follow and plead
again. But then either her pride or her common sense checked her and she
sank back upon the seat once more. The moment for any sane discussion
was past.

There must be some other way—some other way—to deal with her. Who,
in all the world, had influence with her?

Was there any way in which she could enlist Uncle Algernon’s help? And,
if so, was there any pressure he could bring to bear upon his great-niece?

“It’s the last resort,” Cecile said aloud. “And, if I fail—Uncle Algernon
could be nearly as dangerous, in his way, as she in hers. Dare I—dare I?
But if I don’t, nothing can hold back disaster. If I can get him to myself—”

Even that was going to present a problem, with Gregory there. But, in face
of the greater problem, Cecile felt she could surely solve the lesser one.

Presently she got up and began to walk back slowly toward the house. The
business talk should be over by now, she judged. And, if not, they must put
up with her presence.

When she got back to the small drawing room, she found that her minor
difficulty at least had been settled. Uncle Algernon was there alone, turning
over some papers and muttering to himself. “Where is Gregory?”
 She spoke so abruptly in her nervousness that the old man looked up
sharply.

“In my study. Drafting a letter in connection with the selling of your

house. And don’t go disturbing him,” added Uncle Algernon virtuously.
“Trustees have enough trouble without being interrupted in their duties.”
And he looked down at his papers again, to indicate that he too was a busy
man.

“I don’t want to disturb him.” Cecile came and stood squarely in front of
the old man, so that he could not even pretend to ignore her. “I want to
speak to you—alone. And it’s terribly urgent.”

“If you want money—” he began warily.

“No, of course not! Uncle Algernon, have you much influence with
Felicity? Real influence, I mean. Could you make her do something she
didn’t want to do, for instance?”

“It could be.” He was flattered, she saw, at the assumption that he might
wield unusual power. “If I really tried, that is. Why?”

Cecile hesitated—trembling even then before the risk of taking so

capricious a creature as Uncle Algernon into her confidence. But what else
was she to do?
 “Uncle Algernon, Felicity is furious because Gregory doesn’t love her any
longer. He loves me instead. She thinks—at least, she thought—that if I
were out of the way, she could get him back—”

“I told you you were rivals,” interjected Uncle Algernon triumphantly.

“Yes, yes. You were right, of course, though I didn’t know it then. She
holds some letters—” the end of Uncle Algernon’s thin nose twitched, as
though the first faint scent of scandal tickled it—“which reflect very badly
on Laurie—on my mother. She could use them with disastrous results, and
she is threatening to do so. Can you stop her? Please, please, can you stop
her? First she tried to make me undertake to stop Gregory from loving me
—”

“How on earth were you going to do that?” enquired Uncle Algernon

interestedly.

“Oh, I don’t know. But whatever I tried didn’t work.”

“Made him all the keener, I suppose,” remarked Uncle Algernon

knowledgeably.

“Well—yes—perhaps it did. And then, by the most miserable mischance,

she came here today—”
 “No right to come! I haven’t invited her,” was the rather annoyed reply.
“She’s much too thick with that housekeeper of mine.”

“Perhaps. I don’t know. Anyway, whether by chance or design, she came.

And she—she saw Gregory kissing me—”

“What did he want to do that for? Can’t he do enough of that in your

home or his?”

“I didn’t ask him why he did it,” retorted Cecile, at the end of her
patience. “The fact was that he did—and Felicity saw. And nothing will
convince her that I haven’t double-crossed her—”

“Well, haven’t you? Just on a point of accuracy.”

“Not intentionally,” said Cecile wearily. “But she doesn’t believe that. Or
her fury at losing Gregory makes her refuse to accept my explanation. She
means to do all the damage she can with those letters.”

“What are the letters exactly?” Uncle Algernon asked, with a sly glance at
Cecile.

“Do you have to know that?”

“If I’m going to be able to help you—yes.”

 It sounded genuine enough, Cecile thought. And, after a moment, she said
briefly.

“They were written by Laurie to Hugh Minniver, and, according to

Felicity, they show clearly that she pressed him to ask for a divorce from
his wife, who—who then took an overdose of sleeping tablets.”

“Yes, yes—I know. She was Anne Picton before her marriage, wasn’t she?
Shocking business. Who is she going to show them to? Gregory?”

“I suppose so.”

“And then Gregory won’t want to marry you? Is that what you’re afraid
of?”

“No,” said Cecile slowly. “That isn’t my chief fear now—though it was
once, I suppose. I think it would take more than that to stop his loving me
now. But it would reopen all the old wounds, and excite all the old enmities
—”

“I wouldn’t exaggerate that. People forget—even their worst enemies and,

still more, their best friends,” declared Uncle Algernon cynically.

“Maybe. But I can’t doubt that the effect on Laurie would be terrible. She
is just emerging from the shadows—beginning to believe that she has lived
down the past. I don’t know what it would do to her if all this were thrown
up at her again. And she is going to be married. To a very nice,
straightforward, decent sort of fellow. Oh, they’re all going to be made
utterly wretched, if you don’t do something. Uncle Algernon—please! If
ever your skill and power were needed, they are needed now.”

“You’re asking something very difficult, of course.” He rubbed his chin

meditatively.

“Yes, yes—I realize that. That’s why I’ve come to you. No one else—
absolutely no one else—would be any good.”

Uncle Algernon did not actually purr. But he cleared his throat and smiled
smugly.

“I could threaten to disinherit her,” he said thoughtfully.

“But would she believe you?” Cecile looked doubtful.

“Of course she’d believe me,” said Uncle Algernon crossly. “They always
believe me. That’s why they come rushing round me, until I put them back
in my will again.”

“But perhaps she would count on your doing that anyway.”

“It never does to count on anything with me,” declared Uncle Algernon
pontifically. “She knows that.”
 “Do you think—forgive the expression—mere money would influence
her?”

“Mere money? Mere money?” Uncle Algernon gave her a glance of

genuine anger. “You can take it from me that mere money is the strongest
argument that anyone can advance.”

“Is it?” said Cecile humbly. “Well, you should know best. Then would
you—would you—try? I’ll be grateful to you all my life, if you will.”

“Nonsense. No one is grateful all their life,” declared Uncle Algernon.

“Most gratitude doesn’t last longer than a few weeks. But—” he looked
down at her bright head with a sort of reluctant indulgence, “perhaps you’re
different.”

“I hope so.”

“And you want Gregory Picton very much?”

“So much.” She put her head down suddenly against the old man’s knee.
“So much. But I want Laurie’s happiness too. She made her mistakes,
Uncle Algernon, but she’s paid for them over and over again. She doesn’t
deserve to have her little bit of late happiness snatched away from her now.
Will you please help her—and me?”
 She thought she felt his dry old hand on her hair for a moment. Then he
said, “I’ll do my best. Now sit up. There’s no need to have a scene. Scenes
are bad for me. They give me palpitations.”

So Cecile sat up, and smiled at him through a few tears. And when
Gregory came back into the room a minute or two later, she and Uncle
Algernon were talking quite cheerfully and normally.

Late in the afternoon Cecile and Gregory took their departure. And Cecile
was faintly comforted by the fact that Uncle Algernon whispered
importantly to her, as he said goodbye:

“Leave it to me.”

“Why was the old man looking so conspiratorial?” Gregory wanted to

know, as they drove away. “Are you and he hatching something together?”

“No, not really. But he did promise to do something for me, if he could.
Sometimes I think he is quite kind, in his strange way. At others, I think his
malicious desire to play a hand in other people’s affairs is his chief driving
force.”

“If he is your friend, he is a good one,” Gregory agreed. “If not—I’d say
he could be as dangerous as a malicious child.”
 From that Cecile drew what comfort she could. But nothing could make
her look anything but tired and dejected during the journey home.

Gregory, noticing this perhaps, did not trouble her with much
conversation.

He kissed her when he left her at the flat, and once more she thanked him
for her visit to his mother. But something of her preoccupation seemed to
have communicated itself to him by now, and, though he gave her an
anxious glance, he did not suggest that they should prolong their time
together.

To be alone seemed now to Cecile to be the most desirable thing on earth.

And when she entered the silent flat she could have groaned aloud with
relief. She flung herself down on the sofa and reviewed the events of the
day. But when she came to that conversation with Felicity, she could not
rest, but got up and walked about the place.

Could she have handled it better? Should she somehow have been able to
deflect Felicity’s wrath? Had she failed Laurie? And had she really been
wise to call in the aid of Uncle Algernon? Even if she had secured his
utmost goodwill, was there really anything he could do about it?

These were the questions with which she tormented herself for most of the
evening, and they went with her when she went to bed. It was not
surprising, therefore, that she was still wide awake when Laurie came in
about midnight.

Usually, if there were no light in Cecile’s room, she did not call out. But
this evening she came to the door and said softly, “Are you awake, Cecile?”

“Yes, of course.” Cecile leaned up on her elbow and switched on her

bedside lamp.

Immediately Laurie came into the room and sat down on the side of the
bed, and even in the half-light it was possible to see how her eyes shone
and her face glowed.

“Did you have a lovely time?” she asked.

“Yes, wonderful. And you?” Cecile leaned forward arid smiled

indulgently at her mother, in spite of all her anxiety. “You look as though
you’ve been having a wonderful time too.”

“Well—yes. I suppose one might put it that way. Look—” She spread out
her thin, beautiful hands, and Cecile saw that a splendid diamond sparkled
upon the left one.

“Oh, darling—” she sat up and threw her arms round Laurie—“how
lovely! I’m so happy for you.”
 But she thought, “I’m so terribly, terribly frightened for you, too.” For
now it seemed to her that all Laurie’s happiness stood poised on the very
knife-edge of danger.

“You do really like him, Cecile, don’t you?” Laurie sounded as eager as a
girl with her first admirer. “He thinks you’re a darling, and he wants you to
look on our home as yours absolutely.”

“Why—yes—of course. How kind of him. I always should.” In a pathetic

way, this all sounded quite unreal to her. As though they were planning for
something which might never take place.

“Until you get married, of course,” added Laurie, as an afterthought.

“One marriage in the family is enough for the moment,” Cecile managed
to say lightly. “We’ll enjoy this one first.”

Laurie laughed.

“I never thought I could feel like this, at my age. But I’m happy—just like
some silly little girl. It’s like coming out of a long tunnel into the light
again.”

“I’m so glad, darling,” said Cecile, hoping that she was not repeating
herself, or sounding as though none of this were real to her.
 It took every last bit of resolution she possessed to go on talking and
listening—letting Laurie have her glorious moment of recounting and
reliving her joy. This was her right, and this she should have, Cecile told
herself fiercely, if all the heavens fell tomorrow.

It was over at last. Laurie glanced at her watch, exclaimed at the time, and
kissed Cecile goodnight.

“We want to have a quiet little celebration supper one night next week.
Just you and me and Theo and Gregory,” she said, standing by the bed and
smiling down at Cecile.

“Gregory?”

“Why, yes. You’d like him best, to complete the foursome, wouldn’t you?
Besides—” Laurie smiled and pushed back her hair with that characteristic
gesture—“he has been so good over—everything. It would be a sort of
acknowledgment that we have accepted him into our intimate circle of real
friends.”

It was so obvious that she wanted to make this generous gesture in her
turn, that Cecile could only say helplessly,

“I’m sure he would love it.”

 Then Laurie went away, and Cecile was left to her fears and her hopes
once more.

The next days Cecile never forgot as long as she lived. Somehow, she had
thought she would hear from Uncle Algernon within twenty-four hours or
so. She had visualized Felicity making an appearance as soon as she and
Gregory had left the house, and Uncle Algernon tackling the situation then
and there.

But she heard nothing. Yet surely he must either have succeeded or failed.
Then why did he not telephone?

She made excuses to stay in the flat, and when she had to go out, she tore
back again at the earliest possible moment. She even pleaded sickness and
refused to go to the business college on the Monday. But when Tuesday
came she could not maintain a pretence of illness any longer, and she had to
go.

When she returned home, her first question was about telephone calls, and
she could hardly believe it when Laurie said that no one had rung up.

“No one?”

“No. Were you expecting a call?”

 “Not exactly.” With difficulty Cecile kept from wringing her hands.
“Perhaps it’s too early.”

“We’ve settled the celebration for tomorrow evening.”

“What celebration?”

“Cecile!” Laurie looked dumbfounded.

“Oh—the celebration.” She had to pretend she had not quite heard aright.
“How—how splendid. Did you get hold of Gregory?”

“Theo did. He seemed pleased to be asked, Theo said.”

“I’m sure he would be,” Cecile agreed absently.

“Cecile, is something the matter?”

For a wild moment, Cecile had an almost uncontrollable impulse to tell

Laurie the whole story—to prepare her in some way for the blow which, it
seemed to her now, must fall at any minute.

But then her hopes forced themselves obstinately uppermost, and she
thought she must have been mad even to contemplate such a thing. So she
managed to smile and say, “No, of course not. I had a beast of a day at the
college. That’s all.”
 During the evening, when she was alone, it was all she could do not to
telephone to Uncle Algernon and demand at least a sentence—even half a
dozen words. But her instinct told her that he was not a man to be hurried
or prompted. He would either do the thing his own way or not at all.

When nothing had happened during the whole of the next day, Cecile
thought she must somehow get out of going to the celebration supper. To sit
there and smile and talk and make merry, knowing what she did and feeling
as she did, seemed an utter impossibility.

But this was not the first time impossibilities had been demanded of her—
and met. And so, when it came to the point, she put on her prettiest dress,
made up carefully to hide her pallor and her shadowed eyes, and was ready
when Gregory came to fetch her.

“It was uncommonly nice of Laurie to include me in this family party,” he

said. “She made me feel, if not one of the family, at least,” he held her hand
for a moment and smiled at her, “one who might have hopes of becoming
so.”

“She was very anxious to have you,” Cecile agreed, without taking up the
further implication. “We were lucky to get you at such short notice, weren’t
we?”

“Oh, no. I’m very busy just now and I am not going out much in the
evenings,” he assured her.
 As they drove to the restaurant which Theo Letterton had chosen, it
suddenly came to Cecile that she might ask Gregory a question about
Felicity. Not that it was likely that he knew anything. His whole attitude
would have been different, if she had already spoken to him. But—

“Gregory, I’ve thought a lot about that unfortunate appearance of

Felicity’s at Uncle Algernon’s place,” she said, as carelessly as she could.
“You didn’t—hear anything from her, I suppose.”

“Funny you should ask that.” Her heart took a downward lurch which
made her feel sick. “She telephoned me earlier this evening, as a matter of
fact, and asked if I could see her about something.”

“She—she did?” Cecile moistened her suddenly dry lips.

“What—did you—say?”

“That I had a previous engagement, of course. I told her why, what’s

more.”

“You didn’t?” cried Cecile, and her horror was so palpable that he turned
his head and looked at her in astonishment.

“I certainly did. I thought—” he set his mouth rather grimly—“that it was

a good opportunity to make the position clear—to let her know the strength
of our ties. I told her that I was going to the Gloria with you and Laurie and
her future husband, for a family celebration.”

“Just like that?” said Cecile despairingly.

“Have you anything against it?”

“No,” said Cecile, for there was nothing on earth she could say which
would arrest things now. Either Uncle Algernon had succeeded and all these
deadly agonizing fears were groundless, or danger was so close that it was
breathing down the back of her neck.
 CHAPTER XII

They arrived at the restaurant before Gregory had time to question Cecile
further. And somehow, in spite of her mood of black despair, she contrived
to look normal and even almost cheerful.

Laurie and Theo Letterton were already there, and Cecile did take a tiny
crumb of comfort from watching the air of real friendship with which
Laurie and Gregory clasped hands.

“This is the big moment of my life, Cecile,” said Theo Letterton beside
her. “And I have the feeling that I owe at least part of it to you.”

“Oh, no—you mustn’t give me any credit for it!”

“Well, at any rate I give you credit for bringing my Laurie into a mood of
happy confidence where she felt she would chance the future with me.”

“I’m glad.” Cecile managed to smile at him. And she thought wistfully
what a happy occasion this would have been if only the shadow of Felicity
had not hovered in the background.
 It was a delightful meal, and, in the ordinary way, Cecile would have
enjoyed it immensely. But, as it was, she found herself counting off the
minutes, chafing secretly at the leisurely tempo of proceedings, and hoping
against hope that the evening would be allowed to pass off safely, and the
ever-present danger be postponed for a few hours longer.

When at last they had reached the coffee and dessert without any sign of
interruption, Cecile dared to feel some optimism. But then, almost as
though to rebuke her for presuming to entertain hope, the blow fell.

One or two late arrivals were just entering the restaurant, and Cecile
watched them eagerly. As she did so, one figure detached herself from the
rest and came slowly up the room, apparently looking for someone. And,
with a sensation of fatality, Cecile saw that it was Felicity.

As the absolute refinement of cruelty, Felicity stopped to speak to

someone at another table, and Cecile heard her mother say,

“What is it, Cecile? Are you feeling faint?”

"A little. It’s nothing—it’s passing.” Mechanically she drank some water,
while the other three looked at her in concern.

Cecile did not look back at any of them. She watched Felicity. And, after a
moment, Felicity nodded to her other acquaintance, and came on
deliberately to their table. As she did so, Cecile saw, as though in a dreadful
inescapable dream, that she carried carelessly in her hand a loosely tied
bundle of letters.

This was the moment when Gregory first saw her. And, though her
presence could hardly be anything but embarrassing, he hid the fact
admirably. It was he who said quite pleasantly, “Why, hello, Felicity.”

“Don’t let me interrupt the party.” Felicity smiled round, not very kindly,
on them. “But I have something here which I think will interest you all—”

“No!” Cecile gasped desperately, and for a moment her companions

transferred their astonished glances to her.

“She—she has some letters which don’t belong to her. She wants to make
mischief. I beg you not to read them—any of you—”

“Cecile, what’s the matter?” Laurie leaned over and touched her hand
gently, while, from the other side, Gregory put his arm round her.

“Are they your letters, Cecile?” Theo asked, and he gave Felicity a glance
of acute dislike.

Cecile shook her head wordlessly. And, at that moment, Felicity carelessly
abstracted three of the letters from her small packet. One she put in front of
Gregory, one in front of Theo Letterton, and the third, with a slight smile,
she spread put before Laurie.
 “What is this nonsense?” Theo glanced distastefully at his. “I haven’t the
slightest wish to read someone else’s letters!”

“Nor I,” agreed Gregory heartily.

“Nor I,” said Laurie. But something about the letter evidently attracted her
attention, for she picked it up and glanced at it in a puzzled way.

“That objection does not apply to Miss Cavendish,” Felicity said with
calculated malice. “The letters happen to be hers.”

A very slight sound escaped Cecile, and she wished she could have turned
her head away so that she should not see the horrified realization break over
Laurie’s face. But she went on staring at Laurie. They all looked at Laurie
now.

Then Cecile saw her mother look calmly at Felicity and say, “You’re
mistaken. So far as I know, I’ve never seen this letter in my life.”

“Mother—?” For a moment Cecile thought Laurie must be acting—with

the superb defiance of someone fighting with her back to the wall. Then she
saw that the puzzlement was absolutely genuine.

She gave another of those wordless little sounds and, leaning forward, she
snatched up the letter which lay before Gregory.
 And then she saw that the small, neat, very feminine handwriting had no
resemblance whatever to Laurie’s bold scrawl.

She burst into tears at that point. Although she was in a public restaurant,
she leaned her head on her hands and cried and cried.

She knew vaguely that the others gathered round her, to shield her from
observation. She knew that Gregory had his arm round her and that Theo
had poured some wine and was trying to make her drink it. But the only
thing which made a crystal-clear impression on her was her mother’s voice,
saying coolly and with absolute authority,

“Thank you, Miss Waring. I’ll take the rest of those letters. It was good of
you to bring them. I see now they were written to a very old friend of mine
—but not by me. Don’t let us keep you. I think Cecile isn’t very well, and
I’m going to take her home now.”

“I’m sorry,” Cecile was whispering to Gregory. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
to make a scene. I’ve been so frightened—so desperate. I thought—I
thought—”

“All right, my darling. Stop crying now.” His voice was infinitely tender.
“We are all going back to the flat now, and you shall tell us what you like.
There’s no need to cry or to be frightened any more. It’s all over. You’re
safe—and so is Laurie. And I love you.”
 “I love you too,” she whispered. “I love you more than anything else in
the whole wide world.”

“Then nothing else matters, so far as I’m concerned. Look up, my

beloved.”

She looked up then—pale and hollow-eyed, so that her mother exclaimed

aloud. But the hysterical tears were over.

Fortunately they had been at a corner table, partly shielded by a bank of

plants and flowers, and in fact only a few people seemed to have realized
that the pale girl in the corner was not very well.

“We can go now,” Theo Letterton said, with a blessed lack of fuss. And
Cecile saw that the waiter was moving off with the bill, and also that there
was no sign of Felicity.

“Where is Felicity?” she asked, in a small, hoarse voice.

“Gone,” said Gregory grimly.

“And the—the letters?”

“I have them here,” Laurie said, still in that tone of quiet authority.
“Come, darling, we’re going home.”
 Tm sorry. I’ve spoilt everything.”

“No, you haven’t. We had all finished anyway. And now what needs to be
said can best be said at home.”

Together they went out to Gregory’s car, by a side exit, so that they did
not have to pass through the restaurant again. Cecile heard Gregory say
quietly to the other man, “Come in front with me. I think it’s her mother
that she wants just now.”

So the two men went in front, and Cecile sat in the back, leaning against
her mother, her heart most strangely at rest, although she could not yet
understand at all what had happened.

When they reached the flat, Gregory said, “Laurie, do you really want me
in on this, or would you prefer me to take myself off?”

“No. Please come up too. I think you, of all people, have a right to hear
what is said.”

“Thank you.”

It was he who took Cecile's arm then, and she was glad of his support on
the way upstairs, for she felt strangely weak and unstrung. But, once they
were upstairs and seated in the pleasant room where she had first made her
decision to come and live with her mother, she began to feel better.
 “Now—” it was Theo Letterton who looked round with a slight smile—“I
don’t think I’m more curious than the next fellow, but if someone doesn’t
explain soon exactly what has been happening, I think I’ll have a stroke.”

“Pour some drinks, dear, and give me just five minutes to glance at these,”
Laurie said. And, while Theo carried out her instructions, Laurie took the
letters out of her bag and slowly read one of them—then another.

“It’s enough,” she said, half to herself. “There’s no need to read any more
—ever.”

“Oh, Mother—” Cecile went over and knelt beside her—“they’re not
yours, are they? They’re not yours?”

“No, darling. Go and sit comfortably by Gregory, who is longing to have

his arm round you, and I’ll try to explain to Theo, who has been very
patient.”

So Cecile went and sat by Gregory, in the circle of his arm, and Laurie,
still holding the worn and faded letters in her hands, began to speak slowly,
as though choosing her words with care.

“The first part isn’t unknown to Cecile and to Gregory,” she said, “and I
don’t know how much of it was known to you, Theo, Many years ago,
when Cecile was a very small girl, I left my husband and my home,
because I had stage ambitions. The man who had some interest in me and
my work was called Hugh Minniver. But I must ask you all to take my
word for it—there is nothing else to support it—that he was never my
lover.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Theo said,

“I take your word for it, my dear, absolutely.”

“And I,” Gregory added, tightening his arm round Cecile.

“I did flirt with him, Theo. I did encourage his admiration, in order to
make him use his influence on my behalf. It doesn’t sound nice, said in cold
blood—but the truth has to be admitted at this point.”

“It was a long time ago,” replied Theo philosophically. “Who am I to

judge?”

“Thank you, my dear.” Laurie smiled at him. Then, after a moment’s

hesitation, she went on resolutely,

“He was married—”

“Oh!”

“To Gregory’s sister, Anne.”

 “Good Lord!” Theo turned and looked at Gregory, who inclined his head
but said nothing.

“He pressed for a divorce—”

“Because of you?” asked Theo sharply.

“Everyone always thought so. I have always been afraid so. Until
tonight.” She gripped the letters rather nervously in her thin hands. “His
young wife was—horrified. Do you want to tell this part of the story,
Gregory?”

“No.” Gregory was rather pale. “I accept your version of it. Go on.”

“She took an overdose of sleeping tablets—either by accident or design.”

“My God!” Theo Letterton got up and began to walk about the room,
rather agitatedly.

“Most people who knew the interest he had taken in me and my career
supposed it was I who had hounded him on to make the fatal demand of
her.”

“And—hadn’t you?” asked Gregory hoarsely.

“No,” said Laurie, quite simply.

 “But, great heavens!” It was Gregory who was agitated now. “Why
haven’t you said so before?”

“To whom? And who would have believed me, if I had? You can’t go
about insisting on refuting a charge that has never been made to you in
words. I had no counsel for the defence—” Laurie smiled faintly—“until
Cecile came along—”

“Oh, Mother darling!”

“And above all,” suddenly she was deadly serious again, “though I had
never pressed Hugh in words to ask for a divorce, I had it on my conscience
that I had done all I could to engage his interest and influence. How did I
know it was not because of me that he had done it? On balance, I thought it
probably was.” She stopped speaking, and for a few difficult seconds there
was silence in the room.

“And now?” said Theo Letterton at last. “What has brought this all up
again?”

“May I tell this bit?” asked Cecile timidly.

“Yes, dear,” said her mother. While the slight pressure of Gregory’s arm
seemed to tell her that she might do whatever she liked, now and any time.
 So, in a low voice, but quite clearly, Cecile told about Felicity’s discovery
of the letters in Hugh Minniver’s desk, after his death.

“I didn’t know he was dead,” said Laurie quietly. But there was in her
voice no more than regret for a half-forgotten acquaintance, and suddenly
Theo moved nearer to her again.

“I did,” said Gregory. “Go on, Cecile.”

“I can’t tell this bit without showing Felicity in a rather horrible light,”
she said slowly. “But, after this evening, I suppose none of us have any
illusions about her.”

“None,” they agreed in chorus.

“Very well, then. She told me she had these letters—that they were
Laurie’s. She described them as being signed with an ‘L’ and it never
entered my head, in the circumstances, that they could be anyone else’s.
She said, Felicity said, that they carried irrefutable proof that the writer
stopped at nothing to make Hugh Minniver get a divorce.”

“Did you really think I would do that?” asked Laurie passingly.

“I didn’t know.” Cecile threw her a remorseful glance. “I was so

frightened—and she was so positive. She believed it herself, without any
doubt.”
 “Yes. I saw she did this evening.”

“There was something which she very much wanted me to do. She
threatened to show the letters to Gregory—and possibly others, if I
wouldn’t do what she wanted. I did try, but failed—”

“What was it that she wanted you to do?” enquired Theo, curiously.

“I—I can’t explain just now.”

“All right. She tried to blackmail you, in fact? I wish,” said Theo, in
regretful parenthesis, “that I’d wrung her neck, while she was still within
reach.”

“In a way—yes, it was blackmail, I suppose. But it didn’t produce the

result she wanted, and she was furious and blamed me and—and carried out
her threat to produce the letters.”

“It must,” Gregory said slowly, and with a sort of grim enjoyment, “have
been a most disagreeable shock to her when Laurie didn’t react rightly.”

“Yes. She was so completely nonplussed that there was no resistance at all
when I took the letters out of her hand,” agreed Laurie. “They are all here.”

She looked down at them. And again for a few moments no one spoke.
Then she said quietly,
 “I know who wrote them, I think. It’s possible that Gregory would guess
too, if he looked carefully at them. But if it is the woman I think, then she is
dead now. I knew she meant a great deal to Hugh—but I didn’t know how
much. The whole thing was supposed to have been over by the time I came
on the scene. But it concerns none of us now.”

She looked across at Gregory, and he nodded wordlessly. “Then, if you all
agree, I suggest that I burn these letters, without any of us reading any more
of them. They are nothing to do with us now.”

“Agreed,” said the two men, with one voice.

“Oh, Mother—” Cecile held out her hand to Laurie—“I’m glad you’re the
one to do that for the poor soul—whoever she was.”

“I owe it to her.” Laurie spoke half to herself. “It’s as though she reached
out from the grave to vindicate me. I shall know now, for the rest of my
life, that whoever urged Hugh towards the decision which killed Anne, it
was not I.”

She stood up suddenly and pushed back her hair with both her hands, as
though some tremendous revelation had burst upon her.

“It was not I!” she repeated. “Oh, God—I can’t believe it! It was not I!”
 Then she covered her face with her hands and stood quite still. Until Theo
came to her and took her in his arms. And for several seconds there was
silence in the room, while to each one came the full realization of what
those words meant.

“I think,” said Gregory finally, getting to his feet, “that you two must have
a great deal to say to each other which would make me—and even Cecile—
in the way. I’m going to take her out with me now for a very short drive—”

“Gregory, it’s so late!” protested Laurie.

“No, no.” Gregory smiled at her. “It’s early, if you like to look at the clock
the other way round. And I have a few things to say to Cecile which I think
concern only us.” He turned to Cecile. “Are you coming, my sweet?”

“Oh, yes!” Cecile sprang to her feet, the colour flooding back into her
face, in the immensity of her relief and happiness.

“Aren’t you tired, Cecile?” Her mother came to her and took her hand.
“You looked so dreadful earlier in the evening.”

“I had reason to! But that’s over now. Now I have every reason to feel
wonderful.”

“All right.” Laurie smiled at her. “Don’t keep her out too long, Gregory.”
 “I promise. And—” Gregory took Laurie’s hand and kissed it gravely
—“forgive me. I’ll try to make it up to you in the future.”

“You make it up to Cecile,” replied Laurie, with a gay laugh. But she
leaned forward suddenly and kissed Gregory.

“Go along, the pair of you,” said Theo Letterton, and, whether he knew it
or not, Cecile noticed with amusement that an almost fatherly note had
crept into his voice.

She put her hand into Gregory’s and they went to the door together. Then
she glanced back. But already Theo had Laurie in his arms, and they were
both oblivious of anyone else.

“They’ll be all right,” she said to Gregory as they went downstairs. And
she knew that the responsibility which had rested on her so heavily during
the last few weeks had been transferred to very much broader shoulders.

“He will look after her,” Gregory agreed. “You’re going to have to find
another worthy object for your tenderness and care, my darling.”

“I’ve found it,” she said, and he kissed her before he handed her into the
car.

“Where are we going?” Cecile asked, but she didn’t really care, so long as
Gregory was beside her.
 “I don’t know. Wherever I can find a quiet spot, where I can park and give
all my attention to telling you how much I love you, I suppose.”

Cecile hardly noticed where they were going. All roads were flooded with
sunshine for her, although the stars twinkled overhead. But presently
Gregory drew the car to a standstill, and she saw that they were on the bank
of the canal which most Londoners never suspect they possess.

Starlight rippled on the water, and a long barge moored nearby seemed to
impart a quality of romance and even mystery to the scene.

“Oh, Gregory, how beautiful! Are we still really in the heart of London?”

“No,” he said gravely, “we are in a magic country all our own. No one can
invade it—and it all belongs to us tonight.”

Then he took her in his arms and kissed her softly over and over again.

“You did mean what you said, earlier in the evening, didn’t you?” he
asked, softly but anxiously. “When you said you loved me better than
anything else in the world.”

“Yes, of course. Didn’t you know that by instinct? You always vowed you
did.”
 “A man likes even his finest instincts confirmed,” Gregory declared, and
Cecile laughed and rubbed her cheek against his.

“Tell me something,” she said, after a moment or two, and he turned his
head and touched her cheek with his lips again. “Yes? What?”

“What did Felicity do when her whole case fell to pieces this evening? I
didn’t see—or even hear—what happened. I just kept on crying, in that
stupid way. And then, when I looked up, she was gone. Like a bad dream.”

“It wasn’t stupid of you to cry,” he said categorically. “And Felicity has
gone—right out of your life—like a bad dream. I never saw anyone so
completely dumbfounded as she was when she realized that her dagger had
no point.”

“Oh, Gregory!” Cecile gave a slight laugh, but she shivered too. “It was
like a dagger-thrust, what she tried to do to Laurie. Cruel and unprovoked
and—fatal, as she thought. She imagined she was going to bring disaster to
each one of us.”

“Yes.” He set his mouth grimly. “I didn’t know she could harbour so
much malice as to be indifferent to the contempt she must inspire.”

“I suppose,” Cecile said slowly, “it would have been worth it to her, in a
horrible way, if she could have broken up everything for all of us.”
 “I suppose so,” he agreed. “And when she realized that she had failed
completely, in addition to the disappointment must have been the sudden
realization of the figure she presented. She looked stunned—as though she
didn’t even know what had hit her.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Nothing. She didn’t even protest when Laurie took the remaining letters
out of her hands. We all—looked at her, I think. And she must have seen in
our expressions how completely she had ruined herself, instead of us. I
imagine she will find it convenient to return to the States quite soon.”

“It served her right, of course,” Cecile said, “but—poor thing!” For out of
the immensity of her own relief and happiness, she could even feel
compassion for her bitter enemy.

“Don’t waste your pity.” Gregory spoke drily. “Blackmail—even if no

money is involved—is a pretty dirty thing.”

“I suppose so.”

“And now—before we leave this hateful subject for ever—I want you to
tell me something.”

“Yes?”
 “What was it Felicity tried to make you do, in exchange for her silence
about the letters? You said it was something you tried to do but could not.”

“Oh—” Cecile bit her lips, “do we have to go back over that?”

“I’d like to.”

“Well,” Cecile touched his hand in an almost embarrassed little caress,

“she wanted me to send you away. To—to break up the love that was
growing between us. I was to pretend that I—I was indifferent to you and
didn’t want you to make love to me. I—couldn’t. That’s all.”

“Oh, my darling!”

“But that’s all over now, Gregory. Don’t think of it. Don’t ever think of it
again,” she exclaimed.

But Gregory would have none of it.

“Not think of it again?” he exclaimed. “It’s something I’ll cherish for ever.
Felicity wanted you to send me away, and she used every inducement a
jealous woman could in order to make you do it. And still she failed. How
many men do you suppose have had that sort of reassurance from their
beloved?”

“That is that, of course,” she agreed with a faint laugh.

 “There was nothing that Felicity Waring could bring against our love, to
shatter it,” Gregory repeated slowly, and he smiled like a man from whom
all the shadows had passed. “I’ll remember that to the day I die—and then
you’ll find it written on my heart.”