. Perhaps you'd better go. I could arrange a trip for you,
and later--meet you."

Somehow de Lacy seemed one of us. I had no hesitancy in speaking before
him. He seemed a part of my new life. With the strange suddenness that
comes on rare occasions, we were already friends.

Wrexler looked at me, then back at the portrait. Helene d'Harcourt, her
red hair gleaming, smiled down upon us. Before he spoke, I knew what he
would say, because in his place I would have said the same, "Unless you
kick me out, I want to stay."

I put my hand on Wrexler's shoulder. "So be it. Come along, let's see
the library, then we'll know all of Rougemont. We've seen everything
else."

Wrenching his eyes away from the portrait, Wrexler followed us.

The library was beautiful, with paneled walls that had rows and rows of
books sunk in their depths. There was a long, oaken table, and on the
center of it stood a carved, gilded box, the casket which held my
father's letter. I wished then that I could read it at once. I wish now
that I could have, but perhaps it is better that I did not; at least
things moved as the fates ordained, and the responsibility for what
occurred was not mine.

* * * * *

The next three days were quiet, happy ones. Nothing occurred. I had no
ghostly visitant and Wrexler saw nothing of Helene. Under de Lacy's
expert guidance, we rode over the estate, hunted with falcons, a
pleasing sport which we both took to our hearts; mingled with my court,
found the people charming and highly cultivated. We took lessons in the
old dances, visited the manor houses. It was all very gay and amusing,
and I had no longing for the outside world. I did not even go down to
the lodge for news.

There were many details of the estate management that I had to go into
with de Lacy. We spent several hours each morning going over the affairs
of Rougemont. It was virtually a small kingdom, and everything was
referred to me.

Necessarily, the time I spent with de Lacy on such matters, Wrexler was
alone. He had changed a great deal since we had come to Rougemont. He
had come alive, and he threw himself into everything with a curious
intensity. He was like a person who has been very ill, who suddenly
finding himself better and fearing it is only temporary, clutches life
with both hands. He devoted long hours to reading the records of the
d'Harcourts, until he knew the family history as well as his own.

I did not