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As I stole away from that door, I know that my knees were loose. I am not proud of this truth, but I do not think it is surprising, and, if I am to be honest, so often as I remember that my hand was raised, ready to knock, the sweat will start upon my forehead and the palms of my hands grow wet.

I passed down the passage a-tiptoe, as well I might, wondering if ever before two men had been at such pains to avoid the foe, only to choose for their harbour the enemy’s camp, for that, of course, was the use to which he was putting the inn. My cousin had chosen the village because it was not too distant, yet out of the way. And so had Pharaoh. It occurred to me suddenly that if Geoffrey and I could be gone without being seen we should at least have won some valuable news. . . .

I was halfway down the stairs, which rose in two flights, and the doorway of the inn was before me, framing a slice of the forecourt ablaze with the midday sun, when there came to my ears the slam of the door of a car. It was not a door of the Rolls, but that of some car in the forecourt, quite close to the inn. I believe that I stopped instinctively, but almost before I could think, a figure was in the doorway—a little, wiry figure—and was heading straight for the stairs.

It was my old friend, Dewdrop.

Now I saw in a flash that unless of the four it was he that had been lying in wait to identify me at Lass, I stood a very fair chance of being no more than suspected as I went by. And once I was in the forecourt and clear of the inn. . . .

I, therefore, held on my way, and since he was looking down, Dewdrop did not perceive me until he was three steps off. And then our eyes met—for an instant.

His surprise was his undoing.

As plain as though he had said so, I knew that he knew who I was and the second he spent in staring served my turn. As his fingers flew to his mouth, I hit him under the jaw and leaped for the door.

Now all would have been very well if I had not made one mistake: yet I sometimes think that it was as well that I made it; for the lesson it taught me was such that I never made it again.

I had had the advantage of Dewdrop, for he had been standing below me and I was the heavier man. But the hall below us was flagged and I was afraid to hit hard lest he should topple backwards and split his skull on the stone. And so, though the blow was heavy, it was not heavy enough. Lay hold of me he could not, for his balance was gone, but as I gained the forecourt his piercing whistle rang out.

My cousin heard it—I saw him. He had his back to the inn, and the bonnet of the Rolls was open and he was making some adjustment, spanner in hand. I saw him look up and round, with his pipe in his mouth. For an instant he stared. And then the bonnet was shut, and the spanner was in his pocket and a pistol was in his hand.

Before I could speak—

“Take the wheel,” said Geoffrey, “and back her the way we came. There’s a corner a hundred yards back. Turn her round there and wait. Is that their car?”

“Yes, but——”

“Quick,” cried my cousin, and started to stroll to the inn.

What then happened happened so quickly that no account I can give can render the scene.

As I flung myself into the Rolls, I saw Dewdrop, running towards us, stop in his tracks. As Geoffrey fired, the fellow turned and doubled, dodging from side to side: to my amazement my cousin began to give chase.

The engine of the Rolls was running and I let in the clutch. Then I lifted the car towards Geoffrey across the road.

A closed car was standing in the forecourt beside the door of the inn. As Dewdrop whipped behind it, my cousin fired again. Then he turned to see me waiting six paces away. . . .

Pharaoh was standing in the doorway, with a hand to his hip: as he drew arms, Rush thrust out from behind him and sent him against the jamb. I shall always believe that this blunder saved Geoffrey’s life.

I had never stopped the Rolls and as Geoffrey leaped for the step I let her go. In that instant two shots were fired, and a bullet went by my face to splinter the driving mirror twelve inches away. And then we were flashing through the village, and a dog was barking in a doorway and a woman was standing in a garden, gaping and staring, with a dripping spoon in her hand.

Geoffrey was speaking.

“I’m much obliged, my son. But another time you simply must do as I say. It’s you they’re after, not me. And now please put her along. I’ve holed their petrol-tank, so I hardly think they’ll start: all the same I believe in distance. I’m glad to have met your friends, but I didn’t like the look in their eyes.”

Twenty minutes later we glided out of a by-road on to a grass-grown track: where this curled into a thicket, I threw out the clutch.

“My God,” said Geoffrey, and wiped the sweat from his face. “And after all that trouble to cover our tracks. Fate beats the band sometimes. And now tell me exactly what happened. I’ve a pretty good idea, but I may as well know.”

I told him the truth.

“Colossal,” says he. “Colossal. There’s no other word. However, there’s no harm done—except, of course, that they’ll think you’re out for blood. They’ll never believe that this was an accident. They’ll think we trailed them. Funny I never heard Dewdrop come up with the car: he must have backed her out of the yard. That’s why he never saw me. Fluke upon fluke. Never mind. That tank should hold them up for twenty-four hours.”

“They’ll shift their quarters,” said I.

“Without a doubt,” said Geoffrey. “So we’ve done The Reaping Hook a very good turn.” He pulled out a map. “And now let’s see where we are. We ran through a village called Wagen some four miles back.”

We were twenty-two miles from Plumage, and the hour was just one o’clock.

My cousin fingered his chin.

“Tea with the goddess,” he said, “at five o’clock. What could be better? But I don’t want to wait till then. Besides, we must find a lodging.” He broke off to stare at the dash. “Oh, hell,” he murmured, “why does one do these things?”

“What things?” said I.

My cousin sighed.

“You spared little Dewdrop—and damned near cost us our lives.”

“I know,” I said uneasily. “I—I won’t be such a mug again.”

“Neither will I,” said my cousin violently. He slammed the arm-rest with his hand. “Damn it, I had him cold—and I fired at his feet.”

* * * * * * * *

Plumage lay more than two miles from the high road that bounded its meadows and welcomed the shade of its woods. The lane that served it was little more than a track and till we rounded the last of a dozen bends, we were by no means sure that we had not mistaken our way: then all of a sudden the lane became a view-point, and there was Plumage before us, making as lovely a picture as ever I saw.

Instinctively, I set a foot on the brake. . . .

The farm was set on the floor of a fair-sized valley that ran due west. This was full of sunlight and the shadows lay black as jet on the vivid green. To north and east and south were rising woods, closing the head of the valley and fencing Plumage with magic, as the woods of the fairytales. Indeed, the peace was absolute and seemed to be that of some painting, touched into life: for cows were moving in the meadows, and the smoke from some chimney was rising straight as a spire, and a decent stream was lacing the fields with silver and threading the aged eye of a gray stone bridge.

The dwelling itself was handsome, white and gray and low, with shutters of olive green. Its windows were large and its doorway was flanked by stone benches on either side, and a fountain was welling in the midst of the broad paved apron which ran the length of the house. Beyond and behind rose the stables and barns and byres; and the whole seemed matter for Æsop and to argue the vanity of progress, when man might have of Nature so fair a heritage.

After a long look—

“I must try and paint that,” said Geoffrey. “The world will say it’s unnatural, but never mind. Besides, in a way it is. Look at that barn with the oak-trees on either side. That wasn’t built by men’s hands: it grew—grew up with the oaks.”

We stole down the lane in silence and over the old stone bridge.

As I brought the car to rest, Lady Helena Yorick came out of the house, and, behind her, a great Alsatian, a very beautiful hound.

Here for the first time I saw how truly lovely she was, for now she was standing in a sunshine that raked her from head to toe.

She was dressed for riding astride in a silk shirt and breeches and boots: her head was bare, and her figure was very slim. She was tall for a woman, and straight, and bore herself very well, yet she seemed very dainty and nothing about her suggested the way of a man. There were lights in her soft black hair and her colour was high, but though she looked very healthy the sun had not touched her skin which was very white. Her eyes were grave, and her gaze was deep and fearless and very quiet. If her exquisite mouth was proud, her smile was swift, and her eager parted lips were friendly as those of a child: indeed, her charm was dazzling, and though her manner was high, this was in a way but the purple to which she seemed to be born. In a word, she was royal by nature—the thing stood out: she continually commanded admiration, yet of this she was as unconscious as Eve herself.

Indeed, as she stood there, waiting, whilst we climbed out of the car, I remember thinking that the path which young Florin had trodden was not a hard path to tread, and that, though it led to his destruction, many a man would have been content to take it for the sake of the light in her eyes.

I introduced my cousin and the lady gave him her hand.

“I know your work,” she said. “You painted my mother’s brother six years ago.”

Geoffrey put a hand to his head and stared at the sky. Then—

“In Philadelphia,” he said. “He carried his head as you do and he had the same blue-black hair.”

For a moment they spoke of her mother’s American home, whilst I caressed the Alsatian and marked the strength and beauty with which the dog was endowed. His name, I soon learned, was Sabre, but though he suffered my kindness, he did not respond, but only regarded me gravely and then glanced up at the lady that filled his eyes.

At length—

“Plumage,” said Geoffrey, “deserves its beautiful name. Will you let me paint it one day, when the battle is done?”

Lady Helena laughed.

“I see,” she said, “that you have been reading the map.”

For a moment I stared. Then—

“This isn’t Yorick?” I cried.

“No,” said Geoffrey. “But it’s on the Yorick estate. Yorick itself is three miles beyond these woods.”

“And six miles from Annabel,” said Lady Helena. “Remembering that, Mr. Bohun, do you still propose to stay there?”

“No,” said Geoffrey, “we don’t. We’ve—er—changed our minds.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said the girl. “Mr. Spencer is rather headstrong, and he doesn’t seem to consider that he’s rather too young to die.”

“That’s very true,” said Geoffrey. “He’s only got one idea. But let me be frank with you. I’ve only got two myself.”

Lady Helena opened her eyes.

“May I hear them?”

My cousin nodded.

“The first is the same as his: and the second is to save his life.”

“You consider the two compatible?”

“Oh, I think so,” said Geoffrey. “And in any event he’s of age. If I ordered him home to-morrow, he wouldn’t go.”

Lady Helena stood very still. Then she turned to the bench on the left of the door.

“Let’s thrash this out,” she said.

She took her seat in the middle and we sat one on each side.

“You may take it from me,” she said, “that this is no ordinary case. I know what these men are out for, and they’re not going to stand any rot. Now I really mean that. And I can do nothing to appease them. If it was my jewels, they could have them—young Florin was above rubies. But they are not after my jewels: they’re after something which isn’t mine to give them and which they will never get.

“Now, how d’you think they feel about Mr. Spencer? They know that he has the power not only to ruin their game but to send them to prison and death. Of course I can’t answer for them, but if I were in their position, I’ll tell you how I should feel. I should not rest until Mr. Spencer was dead. And please remember this isn’t England. The country is very wild and hopelessly policed: and if you want to do murder, it’s fifty to one on your getting away with the crime.”

There was a little silence.

Then—

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Geoffrey. “If you’d said as much this morning, I should have said you were wrong, for I think the return of his letter was an order to him to clear out. But now the case is altered. Through no fault of his own he’s given them reason to think that he means to treat that order with all the contempt it deserves. Now, mark you, it wasn’t his fault. We bumped into them at Annabel. They’d made the inn there their headquarters, and John walked into their arms.”

“My God,” said the girl.

“But, as you see,” said Geoffrey, “he also walked out. To tell you the truth, we had the best of the brush. But, speaking perfectly frankly, I fear that the damage is done. They believe that he’s out to get them, and if he leaves the country I give you my word I think they’ll follow him out.”

Lady Helena stared at the lane by which we had come.

“You say,” she said, “that you had the best of the brush.”

“We put their car out of action. They won’t be able to move for twenty-four hours.”

“That’s a start worth having. He could be in London to-morrow if you left Salzburg to-night.”

My cousin sighed.

“My lady,” he said, “for one thing, he wouldn’t go: and, for another, it wouldn’t be any use. Their finding that letter was deadly: it bore his London address.”

“Then what’s to be done?”

“He must have his wish,” said Geoffrey. “Fate has played into his hands, and the only thing he can do is to stand and fight.”

Lady Helena rose.

As Geoffrey and I stood up—

“I’m sorry,” she said coldly. “From what Mr. Spencer told me, I fully believed I could count upon your support. He’s very young and downright, and he can see nothing but red. But I fully believed you would see that my consent must be given before you took on these men. The man who is dead was my servant, and the men are after my goods. If you stand and fight you will therefore be fighting my battle, and that gives me the clear right to decline your help. And I do decline it, Mr. Bohun. You cannot enter this quarrel without helping me: and I do not desire your assistance. If London’s not safe, then leave for Paris to-night. And go to Spain or Norway. Don’t try and make me believe that if Mr. Spencer lies low for a month or six weeks, he can’t walk down Piccadilly for fear of losing his life.”

My cousin raised his eyebrows.

“Piccadilly, yes,” he said quietly. “They wouldn’t do him in there. But he is a dangerous witness: and he’ll still be a dangerous witness in ten years’ time. Supposing——”

“I’m damned if I’m going,” said I.

Lady Helena turned upon me with blazing eyes.

“I beg your pardon.”

My blood was up and I gave her back look for look.

“I said ‘I’m damned if I’m going.’ And I’ll tell you another thing. I’m damned if I’m going to be treated as though I were seven years old. I’ve sat here and let you argue as if I were a horse or a dog—dispute as to what I should do and where I should go: why I must do this or do that and whether London would suit me or whether I’d do better in Spain. I’ve seen a good man murdered: because he was your servant, you say that it rests with you what action I take—that I must do as you say, because you’ve the right to decide. With respect, I deny your right. I say it’s a matter for me. Geoffrey says I’ve no choice but to take on these men. I daresay he’s right: but, choice or no, I’d have done it—he knows I would. If I’m cramping your style, I’m sorry. If my help is so distasteful——”

“I never said that.”

“You said you declined it,” I said. “I suppose that means you don’t want to be under an obligation. Well, please believe you won’t be. This is my show. If it helps you at all. I’m happy—you can’t mind that. But I don’t expect favourable treatment because by the merest chance I happen to be rolling your log.”

The girl looked me up and down. Then she turned to Geoffrey.

“Is he often like this?” she said.

“Never,” said Geoffrey gravely. “I think he must be annoyed.”

Lady Helena did not reply. Instead she stepped to the fountain and stood looking into the basin with one of her hands to her mouth.

Looking upon her slight figure, I suddenly felt ashamed. She was only a girl, yet alone she was carrying the burdens no woman was meant to bear. I rather run the castle. . . . She had lost her favourite servant in the hour when she needed him most, when she was beset by such evil as would have sent most women into a nursing-home. And I had spoken to her roughly, made no allowance for strain, dealt with her as with an equal and thrown her glove in her face. A dreadful fear came upon me that there might be tears in her eyes. . . .

Uneasily I turned to my cousin, but he had strolled down the apron and was regarding his barn. For a moment I hesitated. Then I made my way to the farther side of the Rolls. . . .

And there I was sitting, on the running-board, staring on the beauty before me and cursing my unruly tongue, when I heard a step on the pavement and before I could move my lady sat down by my side.

“Where are you staying?” she said.

I swallowed.

“I don’t quite know,” I answered. “We haven’t found anywhere yet. We’ve looked at one or two inns, but they weren’t any good.”

The girl gazed into the distance.

“I hope you’ll stay here.”

I could hardly believe my ears.

“Here? At Plumage?” I cried.

“I hope so. I can answer for the man and his wife: and you’ll have a privacy here that you wouldn’t get at an inn.”

“It’s ideal,” I heard myself saying. “Simply ideal. We’ll be on the spot, yet in hiding. But why—I don’t understand.”

“If you insist on fighting my battle, the least I can do is to billet you. Don’t you agree?”

I turned and looked at her, but though I think she knew it, she did not turn.

“You’re very generous,” I said. “Twice to-day I’ve crossed you, and each time you’ve——”

“Made it up.”

“Far more than that,” said I. “I have my way, and then you—you make me a present.”

Slowly she turned till her steady gray eyes met mine.

“What present did I make you this morning?”

“You smiled,” I said, “and took me into your car.”

Her eyes left mine—to light on the driving mirror, all splintered and starred.

After a long look, they returned to me.

“Was that,” she said nodding, “a present from Annabel?”

“Yes.”

“And you were driving?”

“I was.”

“And you’ve not had enough?”

I laughed.

“I don’t propose to drop in on the brutes again. And you must admit it was the most shocking luck.”

“I’ll give you that,” said the girl. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

When I had told the story, she drew a deep breath.

“If you’d knocked on that door. . . .” She shivered. “May I look at that letter of yours?”

I took it out of my pocket and put it into her hand.

She examined the envelope carefully. Then—

“Have you looked inside,” she said, “since you got it back?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“As a matter of fact I haven’t. I never gave it a thought.”

She pushed aside the torn edges and drew out the shoemaker’s bill. . . .

The note on its back was printed and easy to read.

Dear Mr. Spencer,

The gentleman in green had done something which he must have known I should not like. That is why he was being buried. Verbum sap.

Yours very truly, ——

We read the words together, her face two inches from mine. Then we turned and looked at each other. But I had no thought for the note. Her hair had stung my temples, and I could only wonder whether she knew how terribly attractive she was. Her perfume was in my nostrils. Almost—almost I could see myself in her eyes. The blood in my veins seemed suddenly turned to wine. . . .

She looked away suddenly.

“What did I say?” she breathed. “I wonder if I’m a hoodoo, and bring bad luck.”

“That’s rot,” I said thickly.

She did not seem to hear me, but sat very still, with her eyes on the glowing landscape, and her underlip caught in her teeth. So for a long moment. And then she was up and was pushing her hair from her temples as though to be rid of her thoughts.

“Come. Let’s talk to your cousin and then we can look at your rooms.” Over her shoulder she threw me a dazzling smile. “To tell you the truth, they’re ready. If you insisted on staying, I hoped you’d stay here.”

* * * * * * * *

“We must go to bed,” said my cousin. “We’ve had an Arabian day. I suppose it has all happened: or when we wake up to-morrow shall we be at The Three Kings, Lass?”

We had bathed and changed and eaten and now we were strolling on the apron under the stars. The Rolls was safe in a coach-house, and our belongings were scattered about two excellent rooms. The farmer’s wife had cooked us a pleasant dinner, and a servant from Yorick had served us without a fault. And Barley was yawning at Salzburg, and Pharaoh was scourging Rush at some wayside inn, and Helena Yorick was sitting alone in her castle, mourning with Florin the death of his only son.

These things were indeed ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’: yet, as I paced beside Geoffrey, I found them real: but our sojourn at Lass seemed distant, and my brain recoiled from the truth that it was not yet fifteen hours since I had looked on young Florin, dead in the dell.

Before I could say so, Geoffrey threw up his head.

“Never fight Fate,” he said. “My one idea this morning was to get you out of the way. To say so would have been foolish, for the blood was up in your head and you wouldn’t have gone. But I meant to cool you at Annabel—let you flirt with the hope of finding your men: then Barley was going to report that he’d seen Pharaoh in Salzburg: when we meet him at Villach to-morrow, you’ll see it’s the first thing he’ll say. So we should have left for Salzburg. . . . And after a week or two there, young Florin’s face would have faded and you’d have come home. Very dishonest, of course. But put yourself in my place, and you would have done the same.”

“I don’t think I should,” I said, frowning.

“Yes, you would,” said Geoffrey. “I’m your keeper, you know: and when people like Pharaoh get going, ordinary people like us must pass by on the other side. Don Quixote was very charming, but Cervantes took jolly good care that he never met a wallah like Rush. Never mind. As I was saying, I fought against Fate. I pushed you out of that inn—and into my lady’s arms. And then Annabel. . . . Well, I’ve done my best. I don’t like the shape of the game, but we’ve clearly got to play it as best we can. The moment Barley comes back, we’ve got to locate these blackguards. First come, first served, you know.” He drew in his breath. “We simply must find them, John, before they find us.”

With that, he insisted that we should retire for the night, and, though I would have stayed talking, I was too tired to argue and did as he said.

And that was the end of that astonishing day, upon which by the merest chance my fortune was joined with those of the finest lady that ever I saw and one of the deadliest ruffians that ever drew arms. The one sought to preserve, the other to take my life: and I was of consequence to neither.

* * * * * * * *

Sharp at eleven next morning Lady Helena Yorick rode up to the farm. Her groom led two spare horses, for after we had consulted, Geoffrey and I were to ride to Yorick for lunch.

As I stepped to her side—

“Nothing new?” says she.

“Nothing,” said I. “And you?”

She shook her head.

“Except that my brother’s returning. I wish he wasn’t just now, but it can’t be helped. At least he’s coming alone. He’s very young, you know: and people spoil him, and—and sometimes he makes the wrong friends. He brought two back last time . . . One was French. He took to me at once. I think he’d have gone very well in some servants’ halls.” She laughed at the look in my eyes and swung herself off her bay. “Worries of a châtelaine,” she added. “If only I’d been the boy, and my brother the girl . . . Where’s Mr. Bohun?”

“Map-reading,” said I. “His man, with our big baggage, will get to Villach to-night. He’s got to be met, of course. What Geoffrey is trying to do is to work out how we can fetch him without fetching Pharaoh, too. That show at Annabel’s eaten into his brain.”

“I wish it would eat into yours. Rush mayn’t be there next time, to jog his superior’s arm.”

Here Geoffrey walked out of the house and gave her good day.

“And now tell me this,” said he. “When you’re at Yorick, can you get a message to Plumage except by sending a man?”

Lady Helena shook her head.

“Never mind,” said Geoffrey. “I only wanted to know. And one other thing. Had young Florin keys upon him?”

“No,” said the girl. “While he’s within the castle, the night-watchman carries keys: but before he goes out, he leaves his keys with his mate. The posterns have spring locks, so when the night-watchman comes back, he has to ring for his mate to let him in. And his mate brings down his keys. Young Florin was never missed until six o’clock. And then his mate woke up, to find the keys still in his hand. By rights, of course, his mate should have stayed awake till young Florin came in: but, except that we’d have known sooner, I don’t know what good it would have done.”

“Well, you beat them there,” said Geoffrey. “Young Florin was killed for the keys which he hadn’t got.”

“I think you’re wrong,” said the girl. “To enter Yorick won’t help them. I’m the person that matters. They’ve got to bring me to my knees.”

Geoffrey looked at her very hard. Then—

“Lady Helena versus Pharaoh and others. You know I can’t help feeling that you ought to go to the police.”

My lady pulled off her gloves.

“Let’s walk in the meadows,” she said, “and I’ll tell you one or two facts.”

In silence we left the apron and took to the fields. . . .

The heat of the sun was furious, and I was glad when the girl led us up to a chestnut and threw herself down in the shade.

As we sat down beside her—

“My father,” she said, “had vision. He knew the great war was coming and he saw that after the war the world itself would fall upon evil times. Mother had a very great fortune, and father was rich, and his one idea was so to invest this money that, while the lean years were passing, it would be perfectly safe. I think he really wanted it for Yorick. Our motto is All things pass, but Yorick endures. And he wanted to insure that Yorick would always be maintained as it has been maintained for about five hundred years. Well, this idea obsessed him, and I think that my mother’s death affected his brain. He threw back to his ancestors, and he put his whole fortune in gold. Golden sovereigns, mostly.” She put her hands to her eyes. “I tell you it’s the curse of my life.”

“You don’t mean—” began my cousin.

“Yes, I do,” said the girl. “Lying in the cellars at Yorick is the best part of two million pounds. It’s going, of course. We live upon capital. But even so it’ll last for a hundred and fifty years. And long before that, of course, the idea was to change it back.”

“Good God,” said Geoffrey. And then, “But what astonishing foresight your father had.”

“He was wise—in theory. But how would you like to have charge of two million pounds in gold? The only people who know are old Florin and I. I said it was in the cellars, but it’s not as easy as that. It’s in a private cellar, the way to which nobody knows. Once a month I take what I need to Salzburg: there’s an old firm of lawyers there that sees me through. But of course it was bound to come out. I’ve done my very best, but there’s been a leakage somewhere, and Pharaoh knows.

“Well, there you are. He obviously can’t get away with a million pounds. He could never transport it, for one thing. Very well, what’s his object? I imagine to levy blackmail. Of course I shan’t submit, but I can’t afford to let the position be known. That’s why I can’t go to the police.” She struck the turf with her palm. “You know what gold means to-day. Its possession was always dangerous. Men buried it in the ground and misers counted it over at dead of night. But to-day they wouldn’t dare count it. I’d be an outlaw to-morrow if people knew. Everyone’s hand would be against me and half the thieves in Europe would be camping outside my gates.”

“The remedy’s too obvious,” said Geoffrey. “Why don’t you get rid of the stuff?”

A weary look came into the great gray eyes.

“Because I have passed my word. My father made me swear that until the world was settled I’d keep our fortune in gold.” She shrugged her shoulders. “He was wise in theory, you know. You can’t get away from that. How many people that had two million invested, could raise one million to-day?”

There was a little silence.

Men were making hay in the distance and two bull-calves were sporting on the farther side of the stream: a lark was singing in the heaven, and the steady hum of insects argued the summer heat. Pharaoh and all his works seemed suddenly absurd and fantastic in such a world.

“And you’ve no idea,” said I, “how Pharaoh will go to work?”

“I wish I had,” said the girl. “To give me away would be futile. I mean, it would kill the goose. He can rob me between here and Salzburg—I told you I go once a month. But he can’t do that once a month for the rest of his life. I imagine he’ll try next time, for a thousand pounds would be useful—the sinews of war: and I think his failure last week may have had something to do with young Florin’s death. But what’s a thousand to Pharaoh, when he knows that there’s more than a million lying to hand?”

I made no answer because there seemed none to make, and when I looked at my cousin he was frowning upon the bull-calves, as though their sport was untimely and their antics against the rules.

Lady Helena laced her fingers about a delicate knee.

“Well, now you know why Pharaoh the Great is here. He may prove hard to deal with, but I’m in no personal danger—I think that’s clear.”

This was too much.

“Clear?” I cried. “I don’t think it’s clear at all. I think you’re in very great danger, by day and night. The man is ruthless—you know it. And you know that he’s on a good thing. The best thing he’s ever dreamed of. Thirty thousand a year for life, if he brings it off. And you hold the key in your hand. . . .”

“I entirely agree,” said Geoffrey. “And I’ll tell you another thing. In view of what you’ve told us this morning, I think it was no mere chance that sent John down to that dell.”

* * * * * * * *

Yorick was like no castle that I have seen, for though it was moated, the moat was not under its walls, and the pile seemed to rise from an island which Nature had brought from a distance and set in a fold of the hills. And this, of course, was Time’s doing, for the moat had been made by men’s hands and the water that filled it ran in by two aged conduits and out by two more: but the work had come to seem natural after so many years. The building stood high, with forest rising behind it and falling away in front, and it looked what it was—a stronghold whose work was done. Its walls were bright with creepers, its battlements gay with flowers, and its ramparts made a fine terrace on which a mighty awning was throwing a grateful shade.

We crossed the moat by a drawbridge that could no longer be moved, and a gravel road brought us up to the castle gateway, which must have been twenty feet high. This was now shut by vast curtains of silver-gray, and to my surprise, my lady rode straight between them, her horse’s head and shoulders parting them as she went. We followed her under an archway and into a small courtyard. The light was dim, for an awning like the curtains was slung some forty feet up, and the place had the cool of a grotto, for a fountain was playing in a basin and the walls and the flags were wet. Doors and windows were open on every side, and I afterwards learned that when the weather was hot, cool air was drawn from the courtyard to freshen the principal rooms.

In the hall my lady left us, to go and change, and, when we had washed our hands, a servant led us to the terrace where a table was laid.

The view from here was astounding, for we looked clean over the forest, which seemed spread out like a fan, on to the foothills and mountains which stood in their ancient order, the nearest some seven miles off. The air being clear, we could see all the lovely detail of every tier, the woods that were hanging upon them and the lawns that lay like hammercloths over their heights and even the white of more than one great cascade, a sturdy cord that did not seem to be moving because it was so far off. Yet that was not all, for right in the midst of this background, peering from between two shoulders was a bevy of tiny gables and miniature spires, gray against green in the sunshine, as soft as a tapestry town.

“My weather-glass,” said a voice: and there was the girl beside us, wearing a black and white dress, which I fear that I cannot describe beyond saying that though it seemed simple, it looked very smart. “I can tell from the look of Lass what the weather will be. Now, of course, it’s only our nearest town, but Lass used to look to Yorick in years gone by. If the townspeople were in trouble they used to light a beacon which we could see—the cage is still there, at the foot of one of those spires: and when the watchman saw it, the riders of Yorick turned out and went down to their aid.”

“Oh, call back Time,” said Geoffrey. “If the riders of Yorick were here . . . I think you’ll have to revive them—raise a troop of horse. John can lead it and I’ll work out the patrols.”

“And I could be the hospital nurse. I can’t help feeling my hands would be very full.”

Here an Austrian lady joined us, a Madame Olave, who plainly lived at the castle for Lady Helena’s sake. But though in this way convention was doubtless observed, as I have shown, my lady went unattended wherever she chose. Indeed, the idea of a duenna had never entered my head, for she did not need the protection that any such woman could give, and I can think of no protest that would not have died unspoken before the look in her eyes.

When luncheon was done, my cousin went off with this lady to see the gallery of pictures, while the sun was still in the South, but Lady Helena walked with me round the ramparts, showing me certain landmarks and telling me the lie of the land.

After a little—

“And now where’s Plumage?” she said.

“That way,” said I, pointing. “You take that ride over there and bear to the left when you come to the stricken oak.”

“And Annabel?”

“More to the right. Straight on till you come to the stream: then follow the water down.”

“And Villach?”

For a moment I searched the distance, shading my eyes. Then—

“I think, beyond that mountain with the tuft of trees on its head.”

Lady Helena nodded.

“Full marks,” she said. “I won’t trouble you any more. Was that gray all right this morning?”

“Yes,” said I. “He gave me a lovely ride.”

“I thought he would. You shall have him to take you back. I shall keep three horses at Plumage as long as you’re there. With a groom, of course. You may have news any moment which I should hear. But please don’t think they can only be ridden this way. They’re for you and your cousin to use whenever you please.”

“I shall ride to Yorick,” said I, “to see how you are.”

“But not too early,” says she. “Yorick wakes up at six, but its eyes aren’t properly open till eight o’clock. So don’t ride before then, if you please, either in this direction or anywhere else. Or are you damned if you’re going to be treated as though you were seven years old?”

“No,” said I, laughing. “I’ve too much to thank you for.”

Lady Helena tilted her chin.

“Please don’t talk like that. I don’t like it. I’ve come up against Pharaoh and so have you: and we’ll clearly do better together than working apart. I tried to make you withdraw, but you wouldn’t go: so from now on we’ll fight him together as best we can. If you shoot him, we’ll dance all night, but I’m not going to give you thanks.”

“I’m a man,” said I.

“That makes no difference at all.”

“It does for me,” said I. “But if you don’t want me to thank you, I won’t say the words.”

“That’s better than nothing, I suppose. But I wish you could get it straight. I know I’m the weaker vessel: but don’t ram it down my throat. By way of a start I think you might drop the ‘Lady.’ You’ll find that I answer to ‘Helena’ just as well. May I call you ‘John,’ please?”

“Yes, Helena.”

As I spoke, my heart leaped up, as I think any man’s would have done, for she seemed to have handed me up to the dais on which she stood: and I still remember the thrill of that dancing moment and can see her standing beside me, straight and slim, with her lovely hands on a merlon and a smile on her parted lips.

But when at length she turned, her face was grave.

“John, I’m going to ask you to do a difficult thing. It concerns old Florin. You see, it’s so awful for him. He knows I can take no action, and what can he do? He’s got to sit down helpless under this shattering blow, while the men that dealt it go free—and smoke and drink and sleep as they always have, as if they had stamped on some cockroach, instead of taking the life of his only son. And so I want you to see him and tell him what you told me—that you are out to get them and to see that justice is done.”

“With all my heart,” said I. “Let me see him at once.”

Without a word she led me across the terrace and into a library. Then she summoned a servant and bade him ask the warden to come to her there.

Two minutes later a man of some sixty summers was ushered into the room.

He was dressed as his son had been dressed and must have stood six feet four: his head was high and his hair was thick and gray, and his eyes were set very wide in his rugged face: if his look was tired, he gave no sign of emotion of any kind, but only bowed to his mistress and then stood waiting like a hound with his eyes on her face.

Helena spoke in German.

“John, this is my warden. Florin this is the gentleman of whom I spoke.”

The warden bowed to me, and I went forward directly and took his hand.

“I can’t bring back your son, Florin, but one day I’ll show you his grave. It’s a pretty place, far better than any churchyard, fit for a king. But before I take you there, I’ve some work to do. I’m going to find the fellows that took his life. And they’re going to pay for it, Florin. I’ll never rest till they’re taken, alive or dead.”

The warden lifted his head and looked me full in the eyes. Then he turned his head to his mistress and looked at her. Though he never spoke, he seemed to ask her some question, for after a moment she nodded and looked away.

With his hand still in mine, the warden went down on one knee. . . .

“Your servant, sir,” he said quietly. And then, “I am very grateful, sir. I cannot say more. But I beg that you will be careful. My son will not rest in his grave if you come to hurt.”

Then he rose and turned to his mistress, and when she had smiled and nodded, he bowed to her and to me and left the room.

As the door closed behind him—

“He shouldn’t have knelt,” said I.

Helena shrugged her shoulders.

“That’s his affair. But please tell no one he did so. You and he and I know, and that’s enough.”

Upon a sudden impulse I put out my hand for hers. She gave it me gravely enough. Then I went down on one knee and put the cool, slight fingers up to my lips. . . .

As she caught her breath—

“Your servant,” I said quietly, “and you may tell whom you please.”

* * * * * * * *

Eight hours had gone by, and I was sitting at Villach, in the driver’s seat of the Rolls. My cousin was on the platform, but the car was berthed in the shadows, perhaps a hundred yards from the station’s door.

The train from Salzburg steamed out. . . .

As its rumble faded, I saw a flash from a lamp, and thirty seconds later I drew up beside the pavement where Geoffrey and Barley stood.

Without a word being spoken our baggage was lifted aboard, and as Barley climbed in among it, my cousin sat down by my side.

“Let her go, John.”

Two minutes later the Rolls stole out of the town. . . .

Ten miles on we pulled up by the side of the road.

The night was perfect and all the winds were still. The heaven was one great hatchment flaunting in all its splendour that lovely mystery of bearings we call the stars. The countryside was sleeping, and, but for a sentinel owl, we might have had the world to ourselves.

I felt my cousin nudge me. Then he lifted his voice.

“Anything to report, Barley?”

The answer came pat.

“No, sir. Nothing at all.”

My cousin sat very still. Then he slewed himself round in his seat.

“That’s strange,” he said. “I’d half an idea that you might perhaps have seen someone—someone you thought you knew.”

“No, sir,” said Barley, firmly. “No one at all.”

There was a little silence.

Then—

“Look here,” said Geoffrey, “before you left——”

A desperate voice cut him short.

“Could I see you alone, sir, a moment?”

“You can speak the truth here and now. Mr. Spencer isn’t going. We’re all three going to stay.”

“Very good, sir. Then I seen Pharaoh. And Dewdrop beside. I’ll swear it was them. In Salzburg: this afternoon. Come out of the station, they did, as I walked in.”