of reports and correspondence, from agents all
over Europe, whom I employed in the years before the war to find out
anything they could. I cannot accuse myself of any deliberate or wilful
ignorance. I made effort after effort--in vain. I was entitled--at
last--it often seemed to me to give up the effort, to take my freedom.
But then"--his voice dropped--"I thought of the woman I might love--and
wish to marry. I should indeed have told her everything, and the law
might have been ready to protect us. But if Anna still lived, and were
suddenly to reappear in my life--what a situation!--for a sensitive,
scrupulous woman!"

"It would have broken--spoiled--everything!" said Geoffrey, under his
breath, but with emphasis. He was leaning against the mantelpiece, and
his face was hidden from his companion. Buntingford threw him a strange,
deprecating look.

"You are right--you are quite right. Yet I believe, Geoffrey, I might
have committed that wrong--but for this--what shall I call it?--this 'act
of God' that has happened to me. Don't misunderstand me!" He came to
stand beside his nephew, and spoke with intensity. "It was _only_ a
possibility--and there is no guilt on my conscience. I have no real
person in my mind. But any day I might have failed my own sense of
justice--my own sense of honour--sufficiently--to let a woman risk it!"

Geoffrey thought of one woman--if not two women--who would have risked
it. His heart was full of Helena. It was as though he could only
appreciate the situation as it affected her. How deep would the blow
strike, when she knew? He turned to look at Buntingford, who had resumed
his restless walk up and down the room, realizing with mingled affection
and reluctance the charm of his physical presence, the dark head, the
kind deep eyes, the melancholy selfishness that seemed to enwrap him.
Yet all the time he had not been selfless! There had been no individual
woman in the case. But none the less, he had been consumed with the same
personal longing--the same love of loving; the _amor amandi_--as other
men. That was a discovery. It brought him nearer to the young man's
tenderness; but it made the chance of a misunderstanding on Helena's
part greater.

"Shall I tell Helena you would like to speak to her?" he said, breaking
the silence.

Buntingford assented.

Philip, left alone, tried to collect his thoughts. He did not conceal
from himself what had been implied rather than said by Geoffrey. The