d the meeting. He could have explained it
to Judith's satisfaction--a woman doesn't need much evidence to justify
the man she's in love with. He must have written her--he couldn't have
gone away without that--and if she had loved him, she would have called
him back."

The major made no answer. Katharine saw a cigar fall unheeded upon the
grass, where it lay glowing like a panther's eye.

The other had risen now, his stooped figure bulking in the moonlight.
His voice sounded harsh and strained: "I loved Beauty Valiant," he said,
"and his son is his son to me--but I have to think of Judith, too. She
fainted, Bristow, when she saw him--Shirley told me about it. Her mother
has made her think it was the scent of the roses! He's his father's
living image, and he's brought the past back with him. Every sound of
his voice, every sight of his face, will be a separate stab! Oh, his
mere presence will be enough for Judith to bear. But with her heart in
the grave with Sassoon, what would love between Shirley and young
Valiant mean to her? Think of it!"

He broke off, and there was a blank of silence, in which he turned with
almost a sigh. Then Katharine saw him reach the bench with a single
stride and drop his hand on the bowed shoulder.

"Bristow!" he said bruskly. "You're ill! This confounded philandering at
your time of life--"

The major's face looked ashy pale, but he got up with a laugh. "Not I,"
he said; "I was never better in my life! We've had our mouthful of air.
Come on back to the house."

"Not much!" grunted the other. "I'm going where we both ought to have
been hours ago." He threw away his cigar and stalked down the path into
the darkness.

The major stood looking after him till he had disappeared, then suddenly
dropped on the bench and covered his face. Something like a groan burst
from him.

"My God!" he said, and his voice came to Katharine with a quaver of age
and suffering--very different from the jovial accents of the
ballroom--"if I were only sure it _was_ Sassoon!"

Presently he rose, and went slowly toward the lighted doorway.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE AMBUSH

Not long after, from the musicians' bower the sound of _Home, Sweet
Home_ drifted over the poignant rose-scent, and presently the driveway
resounded to rolling wheels and the voices of negro drivers, and the
house-entrance jostled with groups, muffled in loose carriage-wraps,
silken cloaks and light overcoats, calling tired but laug