d
experienced in person and by proxy balled within him, and sinking
sensations troubled the pit of his stomach. At seven he telephoned to
Winifred by trunk call. No! Fleur had not been to Green Street. Then
where was she? Visions of his beloved daughter rolled up in her pretty
frills, all blood-and-dust-stained, in some hideous catastrophe, began
to haunt him. He went to her room and spied among her things. She had
taken nothing--no dressing-case, no jewellery. And this, a relief in
one sense, increased his fears of an accident. Terrible to be helpless
when his loved one was missing, especially when he couldn't bear fuss
or publicity of any kind! What should he do, if she were not back by
nightfall?

At a quarter to eight he heard the car. A great weight lifted from off
his heart; he hurried down. She was getting out--pale and
tired-looking, but nothing wrong. He met her in the hall.

"You've frightened me. Where have you been?"

"To Robin Hill. I'm sorry, dear. I had to go; I'll tell you
afterwards." And, with a flying kiss, she ran up-stairs.

Soames waited in the drawing-room. To Robin Hill! What did that portend?

It was not a subject they could discuss at dinner--consecrated to the
susceptibilities of the butler. The agony of nerves Soames had been
through, the relief he felt at her safety, softened his power to
condemn what she had done, or resist what she was going to do; he
waited in a relaxed stupor for her revelation. Life was a queer
business. There he was at sixty-five and no more in command of things
than if he had not spent forty years in building up security--always
something one couldn't get on terms with! In the pocket of his
dinner-jacket was a letter from Annette. She was coming back in a
fortnight. He knew nothing of what she had been doing out there. And he
was glad that he did not. Her absence had been a relief. Out of sight
was out of mind! And now she was coming back. Another worry! And the
Bolderby Old Crome was gone--Dumetrius had got it--all because that
anonymous letter had put it out of his thoughts. He furtively remarked
the strained look on his daughter's face, as if she too were gazing at
a picture that she couldn't buy. He almost wished the war back. Worries
didn't seem, then, quite so worrying. From the caress in her voice, the
look on her face, he became certain that she wanted something from him,
uncertain whether it would be wise of him to give it her. He pushed his
savoury awa