his fact without a shadow of doubt was subtly manifest in every word he
spoke, in each tone of his voice. There was strange dark trouble to
face--and keep secret--and he had come straight to her--Sarah Ann
Dowson--because he was sure of her and knew her ways. It was her _ways_
he knew and understood--her steadiness and that she had the kind of
manners that keep a woman from talking about things and teach her how to
keep other people from being too familiar and asking questions. And he
knew what that kind of manners was built on--just decent faithfulness
and honest feeling. He didn't say it in so many words, of course, but as
Dowie listened it was exactly as if he said it in gentleman's language.

England was full of strange and cruel tragedies. And they were not all
tragedies of battle and sudden death. Many of them were near enough to
seem even worse--if worse could be. Dowie had heard some hints of them
and had wondered what the world was coming to. As her visitor talked her
heart began to thump in her side. Whatsoever had happened was no secret
from her grace. And together she and his lordship were going to keep it
a secret from the world. Dowie could scarcely have told what phrase or
word at last suddenly brought up before her a picture of the nursery in
the house in Mayfair--the feeling of a warm soft childish body pressed
close to her knee, the look of a tender, dewy-eyed small face and the
sound of a small yearning voice saying:

"I want to _kiss_ you, Dowie." And so hearing it, Dowie's heart cried
out to itself, "Oh! Dear Lord!"

"It's Miss Robin that trouble's come to," involuntarily broke from her.

"A trouble she must be protected in. She cannot protect herself." For a
few seconds he sat and looked at her very steadily. It was as though he
were asking a question. Dowie did not know she was going to rise from
her chair. But for some reason she got up and stood quite firmly before
him. And her good heart went thump-thump-thump.

"Your lordship," she said and in spite of the thumping her voice
actually did not shake. "It was one of those War weddings. And perhaps
he's dead."

Then it was Lord Coombe who left his chair.

"Thank you, Dowie," he said and before he began to walk up and down the
tiny room she felt as if he made a slight bow to her.

She had said something that he had wished her to say. She had removed
some trying barrier for him instead of obliging him to help her to cross
it and perhaps st