he looked dead-tired, and that he advised her
not to walk to Feetham, but to wait for the five o'clock bus that goes
from the village to the station. But she said she liked walking, and
would find some cool place in the park to sit in--till it was time to
catch the train."

"She was well-dressed, he said," added Buntingford, addressing himself to
Cynthia Welwyn, who sat beside him; "and his description of her hat and
veil, etc., quite agreed with old Stimson's account."

There was a silence, in which everybody seemed to be trying to piece the
evidence together as to the mysterious onlooker of the night, and make a
collected whole of it. Buntingford and Geoffrey were especially
thoughtful and preoccupied. At last the former, after smoking a while
without speaking, got up with the remark that he must see to some letters
before post.

"Oh, no!"--pleaded Helena, intercepting him, and speaking so that he only
should hear. "To-morrow's Whitsunday, and Monday's Bank Holiday. What's
the use of writing letters? Don't you remember--you promised to show me
those drawings before dinner--and may Geoffrey come, too?"

A sudden look of reluctance and impatience crossed Buntingford's face.
Helena perceived it at once, and drew back. But Buntingford said
immediately:

"Oh, certainly. In half an hour, I'll have the portfolios ready."

He walked away. Helena sat flushed and silent, her eyes on the ground,
twisting and untwisting the handkerchief on her lap. And, presently, she
too disappeared. The rest of the party were left to discuss with Geoffrey
French the ins and outs of the evidence, and to put up various theories
as to the motives of the woman of the yew trees; an occupation that
lasted them till dressing-time.

Cynthia Welwyn took but little share in it. She was sitting rather apart
from the rest, under a blue parasol which made an attractive combination
with her semi-transparent black dress and the bright gold of her hair. In
reality, her thoughts were busy with quite other matters than the lady of
the yews. It did not seem to her of any real importance that a half-crazy
stranger, attracted by the sounds and sights of the ball, on such a
beautiful night, should have tried to watch it from the lake. The whole
tale was curious, but--to her--irrelevant. The mystery she burned to find
out was nearer home. Was Helena Pitstone falling in love with Philip? And
if so, what was the effect on Philip? Cynthia had not much enjoyed her