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While Crichton was dressing he glanced from time to time at his valet. Peter had evidently been deeply shocked by the incident at the railway station, for the blunt profile, so persistently presented to him, was austerely remote as well as subtly disapproving. Cyril was fond of the old man, who had been his father's servant and had known him almost from his infancy. He felt that he owed him some explanation, particularly as he had without consulting him made use of his name.

But what should he say to him? Never before had he so fully realised the joy, the comfort, the dignity of truth. It was not a virtue he decided; it was a privilege. If he ever got out of the hole he was in, he meant to wallow in it for the future. That happy time seemed, however, still far distant.

Believing the girl to be innocent, he wanted as few people as possible to know the nature of the cloud which hung over her. Peter's loyalty, he knew, he could count on, that had been often and fully proved; but his discretion was another matter. Peter was no actor. If he had anything to conceal, even his silence became so portentous of mystery that it could not fail to arouse the curiosity of the most unsuspicious. No, he must think of some simple story which would satisfy Peter as to the propriety of his conduct and yet which, if it leaked out, would not be to the girl's discredit.

"You must have been surprised to hear me give my name to the young lady you saw at the station," he began tentatively.

"Yes, sir." Peter's expression relaxed.

"Her story is a very sad one." So much at any rate must be true, thought poor Cyril with some satisfaction.

"Yes, sir." Peter was waiting breathlessly for the sequel.

"I don't feel at liberty to repeat what she told me. You understand that, don't you?"

"Certainly, sir," agreed Peter, but his face fell.

"So all I can tell you is that she was escaping from a brute who horribly ill-treated her. Of course I offered to help her."

"Of course," echoed Peter.

"Unfortunately she was taken ill before she had told me her name or who the friends were with whom she was seeking refuge. What was I to do? If the police heard that a young girl had been found unconscious on the train, the fact would have been advertised far and wide so as to enable them to establish her identity, in which case the person from whom she was hiding would have taken possession of her, which he has a legal right to do—so she gave me to understand." Crichton paused quite out of breath. He was doing beautifully. Peter was swallowing his tale unquestionably—and really, you know, for an inexperienced liar that was a reasonably probable story. "So you see," he continued, "it was necessary for her to have a name and mine was the only one which would not provoke further inquiry."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I should 'ave thought that Smith or Jones would 'ave done just as well."

"Certainly not. The authorities would have wanted further particulars and would at once have detected the fraud. No one will ever know that I lent an unfortunate woman for a few hours the protection of my name, and there is no one who has the right to object to my having done so—except the young lady herself."

"Yes, sir, quite so."

"On the other hand, on account of the position I am in at present, it is most important that I should do nothing which could by any possibility be misconstrued."

"Yes, sir, certainly, sir."

"And so I told the doctor that the young lady had better not be called by my name while she is at the home and so—and so—well—in fact—I gave her yours. I hope you don't mind?"

"My name?" gasped Peter in a horrified voice.

"Yes, you see you haven't got a wife, have you?"

"Certainly not, sir!"

"So there couldn't be any possible complications in your case."

"One never can tell, sir—a name's a name and females are sometimes not over-particular."

"Don't be an ass! Why, you ought to feel proud to be able to be of use to a charming lady. Where's your chivalry, Peter?"

"I don't know, sir, but I do 'ope she's respectable," he answered miserably.

"Of course she is. Don't you know a lady when you see one?"

Peter shook his head tragically.

"I'm sorry you feel like that about it," said Crichton. "It never occurred to me you would mind, and I haven't yet told you all. I not only gave the young lady your name but took it myself."

"Took my name!"

"Yes. At the nursing home I am known as Mr. Peter Thompkins. Pray that I don't disgrace you, Peter."

"Oh, sir, a false name! If you get found out, they'll never believe you are hinnocent when you've done a thing like that. Of course, a gentleman like you hought to know his own business best, but it do seem to me most awful risky."

"Well, it's a risk that had to be taken. It was a choice of evils, I grant you. Hah! I sniff breakfast; the bacon and eggs of my country await me. I am famishing, and I say, Peter, do try to take a more cheerful view of this business."

"I'll try, sir."

Crichton was still at breakfast when a short, red-haired young man fairly burst into the room.

"Guy Campbell!" exclaimed Cyril joyfully.

"Hullo, old chap, glad to see you," cried the newcomer, pounding Cyril affectionately on the back. "How goes it? I say, your telephone message gave me quite a turn. What's up? Have you got into a scrape? You look as calm as possible."

"If I look calm, my looks belie me. I assure you I never felt less calm in my life."

"What on earth is the matter?"

"You won't have some breakfast?"

"Breakfast at half-past eleven! No thank you."

"Well, then, take a cigarette, pull up that chair to the fire, and listen—and don't play the fool; this is serious."

"Fire away."

"I want your legal advice, Guy, though I suppose you'll tell me I need a solicitor, not a barrister. I wish to get a divorce."

"A divorce? Why, Cyril, I am awfully sorry. I had heard that your marriage hadn't turned out any too well, but I had no idea it was as bad as that. You have proof, I suppose."

"Ample."

"Tell me the particulars. I never have heard anything against your wife's character."

"You mean that you have never heard that she was unfaithful to me. Bah, it makes me sick the way people talk, as if infidelity were the only vice that damned a woman's character. Guy, her character was rotten through and through. Her infidelity was simply a minor, though culminating, expression of it."

"But how did you come to marry such a person?"

"You know she was the Chalmerses' governess?"

"Yes."

"I had been spending a few weeks with them. Jack, the oldest son, was a friend of mine and she was the daughter of a brother officer of old Chalmers's who had died in India, and consequently her position in the household was different from that of an ordinary governess. I soon got quite friendly with Amy and her two charges, and we used to rag about together a good deal. I liked her, but upon my honour I hadn't a thought of making love to her. Then one day there was an awful row. They accused her of carrying on a clandestine love affair with Freddy, the second son, and with drinking on the sly. They had found empty bottles hidden in her bedroom. She posed as injured innocence—the victim of a vile plot to get her out of the house—had no money, no friends, no hope of another situation. I was young; she was pretty. I was dreadfully sorry for her and so—well, I married her. As the regiment had just been ordered to South Africa, we went there immediately. We had not been married a year, however, when I discovered that she was a confirmed drunkard. I think only the fear of losing her position had kept her within certain bounds. That necessity removed, she seemed unable to put any restraint on herself. I doubt if she even tried to do so."

"Poor Cyril!"

"Later on I found out that she was taking drugs as well as stimulants. She would drink herself into a frenzy and then stupefy herself with opiates. But it is not only weakness I am accusing her of. She was inherently deceitful and cruel—ah, what is the use of talking about it! I have been through Hell."

"You haven't been living together lately, have you?"

"Well, you see, she was disgracing not only herself but the regiment, and so it became a question of either leaving the army or getting her to live somewhere else. So I brought her back to Europe, took a small villa near Pau, and engaged an efficient nurse-companion to look after her. I spent my leave with her, but that was all. Last spring, however, she got so bad that her companion cabled for me. For a few weeks she was desperately ill, and when she partially recovered, the doctor persuaded me to send her to a sanitarium for treatment. Charleroi was recommended to me. It was chiefly celebrated as a lunatic asylum, but it has an annex where dipsomaniacs and drug fiends are cared for. At first, the doctor's reports were very discouraging, but lately her improvement is said to have been quite astonishing, so much so that it was decided that I should take her away for a little trip. I was on my way to Charleroi, when the news reached me that Amy had escaped. We soon discovered that she had fled with a M. de Brissac, who had been discharged as cured the day before my wife's disappearance. We traced them to within a few miles of Paris, but there lost track of them. I have, however, engaged a detective to furnish me with further particulars. I fancy the Frenchman is keeping out of the way for fear I shall kill him. Bah! Why, I pity him, that is all! He'll soon find out what that woman is like. He has given me freedom! Oh, you can't realise what that means to me. I only wish my father were alive to know that I have this chance of beginning life over again."

"I was so sorry to hear of his death. He was always so kind to us boys when we stayed at Lingwood. I wrote you when I heard the sad news, but you never answered any of my letters."

"I know, old chap, but you must forgive me. I have been too miserable—too ashamed. I only wanted to creep away and to be forgotten."

"Your father died in Paris, didn't he?"

"Yes, luckily I was with him. It was just after I had taken Amy to Charleroi. He was a broken-hearted man. He never got over the mess I had made of my life and Wilmersley's marriage was the last straw. He brooded over it continually."

"Why had your father been so sure that Lord Wilmersley would never marry? He was an old bachelor, but not so very old after all. He can't be more than fifty now."

"Well, you see, Wilmersley has a bee in his bonnet. His mother was a Spanish ballet dancer whom my uncle married when he was a mere boy. She was a dreadful old creature. I remember her distinctly, a great, fat woman with a big, white face and enormous, glassy, black eyes. I was awfully afraid of her. She died when Wilmersley was about twenty and my uncle followed her a few months later. His funeral was hardly over when my cousin left Geralton and nothing definite was heard of him for almost twenty-five years. He was supposed to be travelling in the far East, and from time to time some pretty queer rumours drifted back about him. Whether they were true or not, I have never known. One day he returned to Geralton as unexpectedly as he had left it. He sent for me at once. He has immense family pride—the ballet dancer, I fancy, rankles—and having decided for some reason or other not to marry, he wished his heir to cut a dash. He offered me an allowance of £4000 a year, told me to marry as soon as possible, and sent me home."

"Well, that was pretty decent of him. You don't seem very grateful."

"I can't bear him. He's a most repulsive-looking chap, a thorough Spaniard, with no trace of his father's blood that I can see. And as I married soon afterwards and my marriage was not to his liking, he stopped my allowance and swore I should never succeed him if he could help it. So you see I haven't much reason to be grateful to him."

"Beastly shame! He married Miss Mannering, Lady Upton's granddaughter, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"She is a little queer, I believe."

"Really? I didn't know that. I have never seen her, but I hear she is very pretty. Well, I'm sorry for her, brought up by that old curmudgeon of a grandmother and married out of the schoolroom to Wilmersley. She has never had much of a chance, has she?"

"There are no children as yet?"

"No."

"So that now that your father is dead, you are the immediate heir."

The door was flung open and Peter rushed into the room brandishing a paper.

"Oh, sir, it's come at last! I always felt it would!" He stuttered with excitement.

"What on earth is the matter with you?"

"I beg pardon, sir, but I am that hovercome! I heard them crying 'hextras,' so I went out and gets one—just casual-like. Little did I think what would be in it—and there it was."

"There was what?" Both men spoke at once, leaning eagerly forward.

"That Lord Wilmersley is dead; and so, my lord, I wish you much joy and a long life."

"This is very sudden," gasped Crichton. "I hadn't heard he was ill. What did he die of?"

"'E was murdered, my lord."