him save where on the
hill the lights of the Tempe hotel showed, and a man and woman, his arm
round her, could be seen pacing among the trees. Telford turned away from
this, ground his heel into the turf and said: "I wish I could see who she
is. Her voice? It's impossible." He edged close to the window, where a
light showed at the edge of the curtains. Suddenly he pulled up.

"No. Whoever she is I shall know in time. Things come round. It's almost
uncanny as it stands, but then it was uncanny--it has all been so since
the start." He turned to the window again, raised his hat to it, walked
quickly out into the road and made his way to the View hotel. As he came
upon the veranda Mildred Margrave passed him. He saw the shy look of
interest in her face, and with simple courtesy he raised his hat. She
bowed and went on. He turned and looked after her; then, shaking his head
as if to dismiss an unreasonable thought, entered and went to his room.

About this time the party at Hagar's rooms was breaking up. There had been
more singing by Mrs. Detlor. She ransacked her memory for half remembered
melodies--whimsical, arcadian, sad--and Hagar sat watching her, outwardly
quiet and appreciative, inwardly under an influence like none he had ever
felt before. When his guests were ready, he went with them to their hotel.
He saw that Mrs. Detlor shrank from the attendance of the Prince, who
insisted on talking of the "stranger in the greenroom." When they arrived
at the hotel, he managed, simply enough, to send the lad on some mission
for Mrs. Detlor, which, he was determined, should be permanent so far as
that evening was concerned. He was soon walking alone with her on the
terrace. He did not force the conversation, nor try to lead it to the
event of the evening, which, he felt, was more important than others
guessed. He knew also that she did not care to talk just then. He had
never had any difficulty in conversation with her--they had a singular
rapport. He had traveled much, seen more, remembered everything, was shy
to austerity with people who did not interest him, spontaneous with those
that did, and yet was never--save to serve a necessary purpose--a hail
fellow with any one. He knew that he could be perfectly natural with this
woman--say anything that became a man. He was an artist without
affectations, a diplomatic man, having great enthusiasm and some outer
cynicism. He had started life terribly in earnest before the world. He