you for
protection...."

She had written that, an appeal to him, and he had not until now read
the written words.

What was she thinking of him? What could she think of his long silence?

He could not blame Mrs. Morrisey. There was only himself to blame, no
one else! And there had he been, cooling his heels at Cornbridge and
interfering with other folks' love affairs, and all the time Joan--Joan
was perhaps wondering, watching, waiting for the answer that never came.

He wanted to send a frantic telegram; but he did nothing of the kind. He
wrote instead.

"I have been away. Only a few minutes ago did your letter reach
me. I am at your service in all things. Heaven knows I bitterly
regret the annoyance that you have been caused through me. You ask
me to meet you in London. Do you not know that I will come most
willingly, eagerly. I am writing this on the evening of Tuesday.
You should receive my letter on Wednesday, probably in the
evening; but in case it may be delayed, I suggest that you meet me
in London on Thursday afternoon"--he paused, racking his brain for
some suitable meeting place--"at four o'clock, in the Winter
Garden of the Empire Hotel. Do not trouble to reply. I shall be
there without fail, and shall then be, as I am now, and will ever
be,

"Yours to command,
"HUGH ALSTON."

This letter he wrote hurriedly, and raced off with it to catch the post.

Seven, eight, ten days ago since Joan had written that letter, and there
had come no reply. The man had ignored her, had treated her with silent
contempt. The thought made her face burn, brought a sense of miserable
self-abasement to her. She had pleaded to him for help, and he had
treated her with silence and contempt.

Well, what did it matter? She hated him. She had always hated him. She
laughed aloud and bitterly at her own thoughts. "Yes," she repeated to
herself, "I hate him. I feel nothing but scorn and contempt for him. I
am glad he did not answer my letter. I hope that I shall never see him
again. If we do meet, by some mischance, then I shall pass him by."

Several times this morning Helen had looked curiously at Joan. For Helen
was in a secret that as yet Joan did not share. It was a little
conspiracy, with Helen as the prime mover in it.

"I am sure that there never was anything between Joan and that Hugh
Alston. It was some foolish tittle-tattle, some nonsense, probably
hatc