d, it was a
certainty in the near future. Mrs Fanshawe set her lips, and
determined by hook or crook to get Claire Gifford out of the house.

That evening at nine o'clock the parlour-maid announced that Major
Carew's soldier servant wished to see Captain Fanshawe on a message from
his master, and Erskine gave instructions that he should be sent round
to the verandah, and stepped out of the window, leaving Claire wondering
and discomfited. What had happened? Was the impostor not to be found?
In her present tension of mind any delay, even of the shortest, seemed
unbearable.

The murmur of voices sounded from without, then Erskine stepped back
into the room, and addressed himself pointedly to Claire, but without
using her name.

"Would you come out just for two minutes? It's some plan for to-
morrow."

Claire crossed the room, acutely conscious of Mrs Fanshawe's
displeasure, stepped into the cool light of the verandah and beheld
standing before her, large and trim in his soldier's uniform, Cecil's
lover, the man who had masqueraded under his master's name.

For one breathless moment the two stood face to face, staring, aghast,
too petrified by surprise to be able to move or speak. Claire caught
hold of the nearest chair, and clutched at its back; the florid colour
died out of the man's cheeks, his eyes glazed with horror and dismay.
Then with a rapid right-about-face, he leapt from the steps, and sped
down the drive. Another moment and he had disappeared, and the two who
were left, faced each other aghast.

"His servant! His _servant_! Oh, my poor Cecil!"

"The scoundrel! It was a clever ruse. No need to invent details: he
had them all ready to his hand. The question is, what next? The game
is up, and he knows it. What will be his next move?"

Claire shook her head. She was white and shaken. The reality was even
worse than she had expected, and the thought of Cecil's bitterness of
disillusion weighed on her like a nightmare. She tried to speak, but
her lips trembled and Erskine drew near with a quick word of
consolation--

"Claire!"

"What is this plan, Erskine? Am I not to be consulted? Remember that
you are engaged to lunch with the Montgomerys to-morrow."

Mrs Fanshawe stood in the doorway, erect, haughty, obviously annoyed.
Her keen eyes rested on Claire's face, demanding a reason for her
embarrassment. Erskine made a virtue of necessity, and offered a short
explanation.

"A disagree