hought and ingenuity--that she should have
reasoned the thing out and deliberately laid her plans, calculating at
every point on their success; it was inconceivable.

Besides, what could have put the idea into her head? It was laughable,
the presumption that she was a finished actress, capable of deceiving
everyone about her. If she had had an inkling of the truth, Joan, with
every nerve on the alert, almost hoping for it, would have detected it.
She had talked with her alone the day before she had left England, and
the woman had been full of hopes and projects for the future.

That picture of Mrs. Phillips, propped up against the pillows, with her
make-up box upon her knees was still before her when she went to bed. All
night long it haunted her: whether thinking or dreaming of it, she could
not tell.

Suddenly, she sat up with a stifled cry. It seemed as if a flash of
light had been turned upon her, almost blinding her.

Hilda! Why had she never thought of it? The whole thing was so obvious.
"You ought not to think about yourself. You ought to think only of him
and of his work. Nothing else matters." If she could say that to Joan,
what might she not have said to her mother who, so clearly, she divined
to be the incubus--the drag upon her father's career? She could hear the
child's dry, passionate tones--could see Mrs. Phillips's flabby cheeks
grow white--the frightened, staring eyes. Where her father was concerned
the child had neither conscience nor compassion. She had waited her
time. It was a few days after Hilda's return to school that Mrs.
Phillips had been first taken ill.

She flung herself from the bed and drew the blind. A chill, grey light
penetrated the room. It was a little before five. She would go round to
Phillips, wake him up. He must be told.

With her hat in her hands, she paused. No. That would not do. Phillips
must never know. They must keep the secret to themselves. She would go
down and see the woman; reason with her, insist. She went into the other
room. It was lighter there. The "A.B.C." was standing in its usual
place upon her desk. There was a train to Folkestone at six-fifteen. She
had plenty of time. It would be wise to have a cup of tea and something
to eat. There would be no sense in arriving there with a headache. She
would want her brain clear.

It was half-past five when she sat down with her tea in front of her. It
was only ten minutes' walk to Ch