ce in the world," she declared. "I am a woman;
although I am not old, I know what life is. I know what it would be to
give it up. But the child--she knows nothing. She is too young to know
what lies before her. As yet her eyes are not opened. Very soon she
would be content there."

I shook my head. I did not agree with Lady Delahaye.

"Indeed no!" I protested. "You reckon nothing for disposition. In her
heart the song of life is already formed, the joy of it is already
stirring in her blood. The convent would be slow torture to her. She
shall not go there!"

Lady Delahaye smiled--mirthlessly, yet as one who has some hidden
knowledge which she may not share.

"You think yourself her friend," she said. "In reality you are her
enemy. If not the convent, then worse may befall her."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"As to that," I said, "we shall see!"

We resumed our walk. Again we were nearing the inn. Lady Delahaye looked
at me every now and then curiously. My feeling towards her had grown
more and more belligerent.

"You puzzle me, Arnold," she said softly. "After all, Isobel is but a
child. What cunning tune can she have played upon your heartstrings that
you should espouse her cause with so much fervour? If she were a few
years older one could perhaps understand."

I disregarded her innuendo.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "if you were as much her friend as I believe
that I am, you would not hesitate to tell me all that you know. I have
no other wish than to see her safe, and amongst her friends, but I will
give her up to no one whom I believe to be her enemy."

"Arnold," she answered gravely, "I can only repeat what I have told you
before. You are interfering in greater concerns than you know of. Even
if I would, I dare not give you any information. The fate of this child,
insignificant in herself though she is, is bound up with very important
issues."

Our eyes met for a moment. The expression in hers puzzled me--puzzled me
to such an extent that I made her no answer. Slowly she extended her
hand.

"At least," she said, "let us part friends--unless you choose to be
gallant and wait here for me until to-morrow. It is a dreary journey
home alone."

I took her hand readily enough.

"Friends, by all means," I answered, "but I must get back to Paris
to-night. A messenger from Madame Richard is already waiting for me in
London."

She withdrew her hand quickly, and turned away.

"It must be as you will, of cour