ast night, by the merest accident. He might have been killed in
France, and we should never have known about it.' Her words were
resentful and swift. 'Will you please tell me about him?'

Omitting the incident of Archibald's tavern, Selwyn told of the chance
meeting with Dick, the encounter with Johnston Smyth, the night at the
rooms in St. James's Square, and the subsequent glimpse of them marching
through Whitehall.

'Your brother asked me to say nothing,' he said calmly. 'That is one of
the reasons why I did not let you know.'

'Had Dick changed at all?' she asked, trying to make her words as
listless as his. 'I wish that you would tell me something that he said.
You must know more about him than just'----

'I don't think he had changed,' said Selwyn; and for the first time his
voice was tinged with compassion. 'He spoke of you with a kind of
worship. I suppose you know how he idolises you.'

His dark eyes looked at her through partially closed eyelashes, but only
the manner in which her fingers compressed the fold of her skirt betrayed
the turmoil of her feelings.

'Is that all you can tell me?'

'That is all.' He made no attempt to elaborate the conversation or to
introduce any new theme. The scene which had promised to be so dramatic
was actually dragging with uncomfortable silences. She waited long
enough for him to speak, but when he remained silent--it was a sardonic
silence to her--she rose from the chair with the manner of one who has
determined to bring an interview to a close.

'Thank you for coming so promptly,' she said. 'I am most grateful for
your kindness to Dick--and I know enough of the law to realise that you
were taking a risk in hiding him.'

'It was nothing at all,' he said. He looked at her for an indication
that her questions were at an end.

'I hope you will be able to get a taxi,' she ventured helplessly.

For the first time he smiled, and she reddened with mortification. He
had been so cool and unyielding, so bloodless, that he had forced her to
a disadvantage. She knew he could not be ignorant of the strain of the
affair on her, yet he had done nothing to ease it. If she could have
projected her mind into his, she would have seen that his conduct was as
inexplicable to himself as to her. He knew he was hurting her. Perhaps
it was because her warm lips and crimson cheeks were creating a torment
in his soul that he could not curb the impulse to wound her. It may