went up to the window.
Thresk opened it for her.

"I'll see you to your door," he said.

The moon had risen now. It hung low with the branches of a tree like a
lattice across its face; and on the garden and the meadow lay that
unearthly light which falls when a moonlit night begins to drown in the
onrush of the dawn.

"No," she said. "I would rather go alone. But do something for me, will
you? Stay to-morrow. Be here when I tell him." She choked down a sob.
"Oh, I shall want a friend and you are so kind."

"So kind!" he repeated with a note of bitterness. Could there be praise
from a woman's lips more deadly? You are kind; you are put in your place
in the ruck of men; you are extinguished.

"Oh yes, I'll stay."

She stood for a moment on the stone flags outside the window.

"Will he forgive?" she asked. "You would. And he is not so very young, is
he? It's the young who don't forgive. Good-night."

She went along the path and across the meadow. Thresk watched her go and
saw the light spring up in her room. Then he closed the window and drew
the curtain. Mr. Hazlewood had gone. Thresk wondered what the morrow
would bring. After all, Stella was right. Youth was a graceful thing of
high-sounding words and impetuous thoughts, but like many other graceful
things it could be hard and cruel. Its generosity did not come from any
wide outlook on a world where there is a good deal to be said for
everything. It was rather a matter of physical health than judgment. Yes,
he was glad Dick Hazlewood was half his way through the thirties. For
himself--well, he knew his business. It was to be kind. He turned off the
lights and went to bed.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE VERDICT

"Six, seven, eight," said Mr. Hazlewood, counting the letters which he
had already written since breakfast and placing them on the salver which
Hubbard was holding out to him. He was a very different man this morning
from the Mr. Hazlewood of yesterday. He shone, complacent and serene. He
leaned back in his chair and gazed mildly at the butler. "There must be
an answer to the problem which I put to you, Hubbard."

Hubbard wrinkled his brows in thought and succeeded only in looking a
hundred and ten years old. He had the melancholy look of a moulting bird.
He shook his head and drooped.

"No doubt, sir," he said.

"But as far as you are concerned," Mr. Hazlewood continued briskly, "you
can throw no light upon it?"

"Not a glimmer, sir."

Mr. Haz