so?" said the American keenly. "Then I shall leave the matter in
your charge, Lady Carfax. I can see you're a capable woman. I'm coming
back in September to perform that operation. You will have a willing
patient ready for me--by willing I mean something gayer than
resigned--and my bugbear, Nap--that most lurid specimen of civilised
devilry--hunting scalps on the other side of the Atlantic."

"Oh, I don't know!" Anne said quickly. "I don't know!"

She spoke breathlessly, as one suddenly plunged into a strong current.
Her face was bent over the sprig of rosemary which she was threading in
her dress. Her fingers were trembling.

Capper watched her silently.

"Let me!" he said at last.

He took the sprig from her with a hand that was perfectly steady, held it
a moment, seemed to hesitate, finally withdrew it and planted it in his
own buttonhole.

"I guess I'll keep it myself," he said, "with your permission, in memory
of a good woman."

Anne commanded herself and looked up. "Keep it, by all means," she said.
"But do not expect too much from me. No woman is always good. The best
of us fail sometimes."

"But you will do your best when the time comes?" he said, in a tone that
was a curious blend of demand and entreaty.

She met his eyes quite fully. "Yes," she said, "I will do my best."

"Then I'm not afraid," said Capper. "We shall pull him through between
us. It will be a miracle, of course, but"--a sudden smile flashed across
his face, transforming him completely--"miracles happen, Lady Carfax."

CHAPTER V

THE TOKEN

Slowly Anne drew aside the curtain and looked forth into the night, a
magic night, soft and wonderful, infinitely peaceful. A full moon shone
high in the sky with an immense arc of light around it, many-rayed,
faintly prismatic. There was the scent of coming rain in the air, but no
clouds were visible. The stars were dim and remote, almost quenched in
that flood of moonlight.

Across the quiet garden came the song of a nightingale in one of the
shrubberies, now soft and far like the notes of a fairy flute, now close
at hand and filling the whole world with music. Anne stood, a silent
listener, on the edge of the magic circle.

She had just risen from the piano, where for the past hour or more she
had been striving to forget the fever that burned within. Now at last she
had relinquished the piteous, vain attempt, and utterly wearied she stood
drinking in the spring sweetness.

It