illiancy became more than eccentricity before I
knew him. I would have told you that had I dreamed that you ever could
have thought of marrying Alixe Varian. But how could I know you would
meet her out there in the Orient! It was--your cable to us was like a
thunderbolt. . . . And when she--she left you so suddenly--Phil, dear--I
_feared_ the true reason--the only possible reason that could be
responsible for such an insane act."

"What was the truth about her father?" he said doggedly. "He was
eccentric; was he ever worse than that?"

"The truth was that he became mentally irresponsible before his death."

"You _know_ this?"

"Alixe told me when we were schoolgirls. And for days she was haunted
with the fear of what might one day be her inheritance. That is all I
know, Phil."

He nodded and for a while made some pretence of eating, but presently
leaned back and looked at his sister out of dazed eyes.

"Do you suppose," he said heavily, "that _she_ was not entirely
responsible when--when she went away?"

"I have wondered," said Nina simply. "Austin believes it."

"But--but--how in God's name could that be possible? She was so
brilliant--so witty, so charmingly and capriciously normal--"

"Her father was brilliant and popular--when he was young. Austin knew
him, Phil. I have often, often wondered whether Alixe realises what she
is about. Her restless impulses, her intervals of curious resentment--so
many things which I remember and which, now, I cannot believe were
entirely normal. . . . It is a dreadful surmise to make about anybody so
youthful, so pretty, so lovable--and yet, it is the kindest way to
account for her strange treatment of you--"

"I can't believe it," he said, staring at vacancy. "I refuse to." And,
thinking of her last frightened and excited letter imploring an
interview with him and giving the startling reason: "What a scoundrel
that fellow Ruthven is," he said with a shudder.

"Why, what has he--"

"Nothing. I can't discuss it, Nina--"

"Please tell me, Phil!"

"There is nothing to tell."

She said deliberately: "I hope there is not, Phil. Nor do I credit any
mischievous gossip which ventures to link my brother's name with the
name of Mrs. Ruthven."

He paid no heed to what she hinted, and he was still thinking of Ruthven
when he said: "The most contemptible and cowardly thing a man can do is
to fail a person dependent on him--when that person is in prospective
danger. The depende