me at last, the explanations which
he had always dreaded; he racked his brains in vain to think of a way
out of it--to make out the best story he could.

She seemed to realise his perturbation, she came a step nearer to
him.

"Mr. Mellowes," she said earnestly, "will you tell me something?"

"Yes," said Micky inaudibly, but he did not look at her.

She looked up at him, trying to see his face before she asked her
question.

"Do you--do you know who the man is that I am going to marry?"

In the silence that followed her timid question, Micky felt that he
lived through years. Should he tell her the truth, or should he not?
Ashton was out of London by this time; in another forty-eight hours he
would be married to another woman; he raised his head with a sort of
desperation. "No," he said.

He tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that at least it was
substantially the truth; she was not going to marry Ashton--she never
could marry him now.

He heard the sigh of relief she gave.

"I'm glad," she said. "Somehow, lately, I have thought that you did
know. Mr. Mellowes ... last night ... I thought I saw him in the
theatre last night. I know now that I was mistaken." She paused a
moment and looked past him to the window and the cold grey street
outside. "I couldn't have seen him," she said again, as if to convince
herself rather than him. "Because he is in Paris--I found out this
morning that he is still in Paris."

"Yes," said Micky. His voice sounded choked. "And so--so you want to
go out there to him, is that it?"

Her face brightened.

"Yes. I should have told June only--only she isn't very sympathetic.
You see"--she smiled faintly--"she hates my 'phantom lover,' as she
calls him, and so--so I know she would only do her best to keep me
from going to him; but you----"

"I am afraid," said Micky quietly, "that I shall try and do the same
thing."

He turned and looked at her squarely.

"You've never been to Paris," he said, "and probably you can't speak a
word of French. You've probably never travelled any distance alone.
Miss Shepstone, it's impossible for you to go. I am only advising you
for your own good. Why not write to--to--your fiance and ask him to
make arrangements for you?"

He broke off helplessly. The poor little letter in which she had
already done so lay in his pocket at that moment.

It turned him sick to think of the tissue of lies and deceit his own
actions were forcing upon him.