. "Aunt
Jenny died and didn't leave me a cent."

"Why didn't he come before?" asked Caldegard.

"Been looking for something to do," said the brother. "Now he's been a
soldier, I don't believe there's anything left."

"How long was he in the Army?"

"Twelve months in the trenches, two years in the Air Force, and, one
time with another, ten months in hospital," replied Bellamy.

"And as soon as he's clear of the Army, he finds he's got money to
burn," chuckled Caldegard. "No wonder it's six months before he pays a
visit to his respectable big brother."

Amaryllis gathered up her half-read letters, and walked absent-mindedly
to the open french-window.

"Oh well," continued her father, "I'm afraid there aren't many
sensations left for your rolling stone."

Amaryllis went slowly down the steps into the garden, Bellamy watching
her until she was out of sight.

"Look here, Caldegard," he said, turning quickly. "Your daughter knows
it's a secret, but she does not know it's a deadly one."

"Well?" said Caldegard.

"My brother," continued Bellamy, "doesn't know there is a secret, and is
coming to live in the middle of it. I think that your daughter should
know the whole story; and, when you've met him, I hope you'll think it
good business to trust my young 'un as completely as I trust yours."

CHAPTER II.

THE HEN WITH ONE CHICK.

Under the cedar tree on the south lawn of Bellamy's garden sat Amaryllis
Caldegard. On the wicker table at her side lay a piece of needlework
half-covering three fresh novels. But when the stable-clock on the other
side of the house struck noon, it reminded her that she had sat in that
pleasant shadow for more than an hour without threading her needle or
reading a line.

Her reflections were coloured with a tinge of disappointment. Although
her life, passed in almost daily contact with an affectionate father,
who was a man of both character and intellect, had been anything but
unhappy, it had lacked, at one time or another, variety and beauty. But
the time spent in the exquisite Hertfordshire country surrounding the
old Manor House had been, she thought, the pleasantest five weeks in her
memory.

The worldly distinction of Sir Randal Bellamy gave point to the pleasure
she felt in his courtesy to her father and his something more than
courtesy to herself. She did not tell herself in definite thought that
she counted with Randal Bellamy for something more than the mere
daught