Dora Bellairs, in a very low whisper, answered, "No."

"I shall write to-night."

"Oh! To-night?"

"Yes. Now promise me you will too."

"It's harder for me than you."

"Not if he really----."

"Oh, indeed, he really does, Mr. Ellerton."

"Then you'll write?"

"Perhaps."

"No. Promise!"

"Well--it must be right. Yes, I will."

"I feel the better for our talk, Miss Bellairs, don't you?"

"I do a little."

"We shall be friends now, you know; even if I bring it off I shan't be
content unless you do too. Won't you give me your good wishes?"

"Indeed I will."

"Shake hands on it."

They shook hands and began to stroll back to the tennis-courts.

"They look a little better," observed Sir Roger Deane, who had been
listening to an eloquent description of the gaming-tables.

Dora and Charlie walked on towards the hotel.

"Hi!" shouted Sir Roger. "Tea's coming out here."

"I've got a letter to write," said Charlie.

"Well, Miss Bellairs, you must come. Who's to pour it out?"

"I must catch the post, Sir Roger," answered Dora.

They went into the house together. In the hall they parted.

"You'll let me know what happens, Mr. Ellerton, won't you? I'm so
interested."

"And you?"

"Oh--well, perhaps," and the sallow of her cheeks had turned to a fine
dusky red as she ran upstairs.

Thus it happened that a second letter for John Ashforth and a second
letter for Mary Travers left Cannes that night.

And if it seems a curious coincidence that Dora and Charlie should meet
at Cannes, it can only be answered that they were each of them just as
likely to be at Cannes as anywhere else. Besides, who knows that these
things are all coincidence?

CHAPTER III

A PROVIDENTIAL DISCLOSURE

On Wednesday the eleventh of April, John Ashforth rose from his bed
full of a great and momentous resolution. There is nothing very strange
in that, perhaps it is just the time of day when such things come to a
man, and, in ordinary cases, they are very prone to disappear with the
relics of breakfast. But John was of sterner stuff. He had passed a
restless night, tossed to and fro by very disturbing gusts of emotion,
and he arose with the firm conviction that if he would escape shipwreck
he must secure his bark by immovable anchors while he was, though not
in honor, yet in law and fact, free; he could not trust himself.
Sorrowfully admitting his weakness, he turned to the true, the right,
the heroic remedy.

"I'