concerning his
professional interests; would the lady permit him to bespeak her
countenance for a new singer, an Irish girl of great talent, who would
be coming out very shortly?

"She has a magnificent song, madam! The very spirit of
Patriotism--stirring, stirring! Let me offer you one of her photos.
Miss Ennis Corthy--you'll soon see the announcements."

Olga drove away in a troubled dream.

CHAPTER XXXV

"The 13th will suit admirably," wrote Helen Borisoff.

"That morning my guests leave, and we shall be quiet--except for the
popping of guns round about. Which reminds me that my big, healthy
Englishman of a cousin (him you met in town) will be down here to
slaughter little birds in aristocratic company, and may most likely
look in to tell us of his bags. I will meet you at the station."

So Irene, alone, journeyed from King's Cross into the North Riding. At
evening, the sun golden amid long lazy clouds that had spent their
showers, she saw wide Wensleydale, its closing hills higher to north
and south as the train drew onward, green slopes of meadow and woodland
rising to the beat and the heather. At a village station appeared the
welcoming face of her friend Helen. A countryman with his homely gig
drove them up the hillside, the sweet air singing about them from
moorland heights, the long dale spreading in grander prospect as they
ascended, then hidden as they dropped into a wooded glen, where the
horse splashed through a broad beck and the wheels jolted over boulders
of limestone. Out again into the sunset, and at a turn of the climbing
road stood up before them the grey old Castle, in its shadow the church
and the hamlet, and all around the glory of rolling hills.

Of the four great towers, one lay a shattered ruin, one only remained
habitable. Above the rooms occupied by Mrs. Borisoff and her guests was
that which had imprisoned the Queen of Scots; a chamber of bare stone,
with high embrasure narrowing to the slit of window which admitted
daylight, and, if one climbed the sill, gave a glimpse of far
mountains. Down below, deep under the roots of the tower, was the
Castle's dungeon, black and deadly. Early on the morrow Helen led her
friend to see these things. Then they climbed to the battlements, where
the sun shone hot, and Helen pointed out the features of the vast
landscape, naming heights, and little dales which pour their
tributaries into the Ure, and villages lying amid the rich pasture.

"