"Now tell me about yourself," he said. "Have you sent anything to
Drexley yet?"

She nodded.

"I think Mr. Drexley is quite the nicest man I know," she declared
gaily. "I sent him three little fairy tales, and last week he sent me a
cheque for them and asked for more. And do you know what he said,
Douglas? I asked him to let me have his honest opinion as to whether I
could make enough to live on by such work as I sent him, and he replied
that there could be no possible doubt about it. He wants me to write
something longer."

He took her hand--which she yielded to him frankly--and forgot to
restore it. He was honestly delighted. He noticed too that her fingers
were very shapely and their touch--she had withdrawn her gloves--a
pleasant thing.

"Cissy," he said, "I must see more of you. We are comrades and
fellow-workers. We have begun to do the things we talked about up
amongst the hills in the old days. Do you remember how we lay in the
heather and the dreams we had? Actually I believe that they are coming
true."

Her dark eyes were soft with reminiscences and her face was brilliant
with smiles.

"It sounds delightful, cousin Douglas," she replied. "Oh, if only Joan
would come to her senses. It seems like a thunderbolt always hanging
over us. I believe that if she were to see us together she would go
mad."

"I have little to reproach myself with as regards Joan," he said. "Of
course that night must always be a black chapter in my life. I could
not get to London without money, and I took only a part of what was my
own. I need not tell you, Cicely, that I never raised my hand against
your father."

Her fingers closed upon his.

"I believe you, Douglas, but there is something I must ask."

"Whilst we are talking of it ask me. Then we will put the subject away
for ever."

"Do you know who it was?"

His face grew very pale and stern.

"I believe I do," he answered.

"And you are shielding him? Your silence is shielding him, is it not?"

"I am doing more," he said. "I destroyed my own identity, and the
Douglas Guest of Feldwick is an accounted murderer by others besides
Joan. I can tell you only this, Cissy. I did it because it seemed to
me the best and the most merciful thing to be done."

She looked at him gravely.

"He was my father, Douglas, and though I am not like Joan, yet I too
would have justice done."

"There are things," he added, "which you do not know. There are things
which I pray th