he keenness of the eyes and
the youthful lines of the face beneath.

"You are interested in monumental brasses?" enquired the vicar, as
he entered the chancel, and the stranger rose to his feet. "I am the
vicar," he explained. There was a look of eager interest in the pale
grey eyes that looked out from a placid, scholarly face.

"I was taking the liberty of copying the inscription on this,"
replied Malcolm Sage, indicating the time-worn brass at his feet,
"only unfortunately my fountain-pen has given out."

"There is pen and ink in the vestry," said the vicar, impressed by
the fact that the stranger had chosen the finest brass in the church,
one that had been saved from Cromwell's Puritans by the ingenuity of
the then incumbent, who had caused it to be covered with cement.
Then as an afterthought the vicar added, "I can get your pen filled
at the vicarage. My daughter has some ink; she always uses a
fountain-pen."

Malcolm Sage thanked him, and for the next half-hour the vicar
forgot the worries of the past few weeks in listening to a man who
seemed to have the whole subject of monumental brasses and Norman
architecture at his finger-ends.

Subsequently Malcolm Sage was invited to the vicarage, where another
half-hour was occupied in Mr. Crayne showing him his collection of
books on brasses.

As Malcolm Sage made a movement to depart, the vicar suddenly
remembered the matter of the ink, apologised for his remissness, and
left the room, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of
fountain-pen ink. Malcolm Sage drew from his pocket his pen, and
proceeded to replenish the ink from the bottle. Finally he completed
the transcription of the lettering of the brass from a rubbing
produced by the vicar.

Reluctant to allow so interesting a visitor to depart, Mr. Crayne
pressed him to take tea; but Malcolm Sage pleaded an engagement.

As they crossed the hall, a fair girl suddenly, rushed out from a
door on the right. She was crying hysterically. Her hair was
disordered, her deep violet eyes rimmed with red, and her moist lips
seemed to stand out strangely red against the alabaster paleness of
her skin.

"Muriel!"

Malcolm Sage glanced swiftly at the vicar. The look of scholarly
calm had vanished from his features, giving place to a set sternness
that reflected the tone in which he had uttered his daughter's name.

At the sight of a stranger the girl had paused, then, as if
realising her tear-stained face and