h he took to the window to read. Then with steps which
seemed to French to waver like those of a man half drunk he went to his
writing-desk, and wrote a reply which he gave to the servant who was
waiting in the passage. He stood a moment thinking, his hand over his
eyes, before he approached his nephew.

"Geoffrey, will you please take my place at dinner to-night? I am going
out. Make any excuse you like." He moved away--but turned back again,
speaking with much difficulty--"The woman you saw--is at the Rectory.
Alcott took her in last night. He writes to me. I am going there."

CHAPTER XI

Buntingford walked rapidly across the park, astonishing the old
lodge-keeper who happened to see him pass through, and knew that his
lordship had a large Whitsuntide party at the house, who must at that
very moment be sitting down to dinner.

The Rectory lay at the further extremity of the village, which was long
and straggling. The village street, still bathed in sun, was full of
groups of holiday makers, idling and courting. To avoid them, Buntingford
stepped into one of his own plantations, in which there was a path
leading straight to the back of the Rectory.

He walked like one half-stunned, with very little conscious thought. As
to the blow which had now fallen, he had lived under the possibility of
it for fourteen years. Only since the end of the war had he begun to
feel some security, and in consequence to realize a new ferment in
himself. Well--now at least he would _know_. And the hunger to know
winged his feet.

He found a gate leading into the garden of the Rectory open, and went
through it towards the front of the house. A figure in grey flannels,
with a round collar, was pacing up and down the little grass-plot there,
waiting for him.

John Alcott came forward at sight of him. He took Buntingford's hand in
both his own, and looked into his face. "Is it true?" he said, gently.

"Probably," said Buntingford, after a moment.

"Will you come into my study? I think you ought to hear our story before
you see her."

He led the way into the tiny house, and into his low-roofed study, packed
with books from floor to ceiling, the books of a lonely man who had found
in them his chief friends. He shut the door with care, suggesting that
they should speak as quietly as possible, since the house was so small,
and sound travelled so easily through it.

"Where is she?" said Buntingford, abruptly, as he took the chai