which he
implored her not to misjudge him, and in which he promised that, as soon
as he dared to leave his hiding-place and meet her, he would explain
everything. In return, she had again written to him, but though three
weary weeks had passed, she had received no word in reply. She
could neither write by post, nor could she telegraph. It was far too
dangerous. In addition, his address had been purposely withheld from
her.

Walter Brock had tried to ascertain it. He had even seen the mysterious
messenger on her last visit to England, but she had refused point-blank,
declaring that she had been ordered to disclose nothing. She was merely
a messenger.

That her correspondence was still being watched by the police, Dorise
was quite well aware. Her maid, Duncan, had told her in confidence quite
recently that while crossing Berkeley Square one evening she had been
accosted by a good-looking young man who, having pressed his attentions
upon her, had prevailed upon her to meet him on the following evening.

He then took her to dinner to a restaurant in Soho, and to the pictures
afterwards. They had met half a dozen times, when he began to cleverly
question her concerning her mistress, asking whether she had letters
from her gentleman friends. At this Duncan had grown suspicious, and she
had not met the young fellow since.

That, in itself, showed her that the police were bent on discovering and
arresting Hugh.

The great mystery of it all was why Hugh should have gone deliberately
and clandestinely to the Villa Amette on the night of the tragic affair.

Dorise was really an expert in casting a fly; also she excelled in
several branches of sport. She was a splendid tennis-player, she rode
well to hounds, and was very fair at golf. But that morning she had no
heart for fishing, and especially in such company. She despised George
Sherrard as a prig, fond of boasting of his means, and, indeed, so
terribly self-conscious was he that in many circles he was declared
impossible. Men disliked him for his swagger and conceit, and women
despised him for his superior attitude towards them.

For a full hour Dorise continued making casts, but in vain. She changed
her flies once or twice, until at last, by a careless throw, she got her
tackle hooked high in a willow, with the result that, in endeavouring
to extricate it, she broke off the hook. Then with an exclamation of
impatience, she wound up her line and threw her rod upon the