s married."

"When she is married," he repeated.

"To Mr. John Everard of Buddesby, a rare pleasant-spoken, nice gentleman
as no one can speak a word against. Passes here most days in his car, he
does--always running over from Buddesby, as is but natcheral."

Starden Hall gates stood about a quarter of a mile out of Starden
village, and midway between the village and the Hall gates was Mrs.
Bonner's clean, typically Kentish little cottage.

Artists were Mrs. Bonner's usual customers. The cottage was old,
half-timbered and hipped-roofed. The roof was clad with Sussex stone,
lichen-covered, and a feast of colour from grey and vivid yellow to the
most tender green. Mrs. Bonner herself was a comfortable body, built on
ample and generous lines, a born house manager, a born cook, and of a
cleanliness that she herself described as "scrutinous."

So Hugh, casting about for a retreat, had happened on Mrs. Bonner's
cottage and had installed himself here--for how long he knew not, for
what purpose he scarcely even guessed at. Yet here he was.

Mrs. Bonner had seen Philip Slotman, as she saw most things and people
that at one time or another passed within range of her windows.

She recognised him from Hugh's description.

"It would be about best part of a fortnight ago," she said. "He had
shammy leather gloves on, and was in Hickman's cab. Hickman waited for
him at the hall gates and then took him back."

"And he's not been here since?"

"I fancy, but I ain't sure, that I did see him one day in a car," said
Mrs. Bonner; "but I couldn't swear to it."

Twice he had seen "Her" from the window of Mrs. Bonner's little cottage,
once a mere glimpse as she had flashed by in a car; the other time she
had been afoot, walking and alone. He had gazed on the slim grace of her
figure, himself hidden behind Mrs. Bonner's spotless white lace
curtains. He had watched her, his soul in his eyes, the woman he loved
and who was not for him, could never be for him now, and there fell upon
him a sense of desolation, of loneliness, of utter hopelessness.

Three days had passed since his coming to Starden. He had seen Joan
twice, he had seen the man she was to marry. Once he had caught a
glimpse of John Everard hurrying to Starden Hall in his little car, he
himself had been standing by Mrs. Bonner's gate. Everard had turned his
head and glanced at him, with that curiosity about strangers that all
dwellers in rustic places feel.

"An artist,