A little after noon on the following day, Amaryllis and Dick Bellamy, followed by Gorgon with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, entered the hall by the front door, clamouring for drinks, to find Caldegard swearing over a telegram.

“What’s the matter, dad?” she asked.

“Sir Charles Colombe,” replied her father. “He will be deeply indebted if I will call at the Home Office at one-thirty p.m. I should think he would be! If the message had been sent in time I could have caught the twelve thirty-five. It’s a quarter past now, and it can’t be done.”

“Yes, it can,” said Dick. “Grab your hat and tie it on, while I get my car.”

Randal, coming from his study, was in time to see the car vanish in a cloud of dust.

“Where are they going?” he asked.

“To catch the twelve thirty-five,” replied Amaryllis. “Dick says he can do it in seven and a half minutes.”

Randal not only noticed the christian name, but also the girl’s unconsciousness of having used it.

“They want father at the Home Office. Who’s Sir Charles Colombe, Sir Randal?” she asked.

“Permanent Under Secretary,” he answered. “I suppose Broadfoot is making trouble again.”

And he looked at her as if he were thinking of Amaryllis rather than of permanent or political chiefs of Home Affairs.

“This is Friday, you know,” he said at last.

“Yes,” replied the girl, and Randal thought her face showed embarrassment but of what nature, he could not tell.

“I won’t spoil your lunch, my dear child,” he said, looking down at her with eyes curiously contracted. “But if you’ll give me half an hour in the afternoon ”

“Of course I will,” she replied, with frank kindness. “And, oh! may I have a lemon-squash?”

A little later, as he watched her drink it, he admired her more than ever before. Since he first met her he had taken increasing pleasure from the tall figure, of which the fine lines and just proportions hid the strength and energy he had seen her upon occasion display; and he had often asked himself in what attitude or action her inherent grace appeared most charming. Sometimes it was driving from the tee, at another taking a swift volley which she must run to meet; or, again, just pouring out his coffee. But now, lounging on the old leather sofa, with her head tipped well back for red lips and white teeth to capture the slip of ice sliding to them from the bottom of the long tumbler, he thought her the very perfection of innocent freedom and symmetry.

And when the ice was crunched and swallowed, she laughed joyously, showing him that the teeth he had cried pity on were sound as ever; so that he raked his mind for jest and anecdote just that he might see them flash yet again.

But there was a difference in her to-day a softer touch, as of happiness to come, flinging backward in her face a clouded reflection from the future. The image in that distant mirror, however, he could not see, and his gaiety failed him.

“I’m awfully untidy,” she said at last, springing to her feet and pushing back loosened hair. “It’s nearly lunch time I hope so, at least, because I’m horribly hungry.”

Perhaps it was best, after all, standing a little to one side, to see her mount that flight of broad, shallow steps; yet, being unable at once to make up his mind, he waited there at the stair’s foot to see her come down again.

She came at last, with so new a smile on her lips, that criticism was lost in curiosity. Its subtle curves blended expectancy, fear and tenderness, seen through a veil of restraint.

Then he saw that she was looking over his head, and turned to see his brother standing in the doorway, with the sunlight behind him.

The half-hour she had promised him left Amaryllis little less unhappy than Randal Bellamy.

Tea under the cedar was over, and Amaryllis could not eat even another éclair, when he had said to her, “It’s half-past five.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, and folded her hands in her lap.

“So I’ve got till six o’clock,” he went on.

“Yes,” said Amaryllis, adding, a little uneasily, “and as much longer as you like, Sir Randal.”

He smiled at her mistake, and shook his head in resignation.

“You don’t mean that not in my sense,” he said. “But look here, my dear: I do really think it wouldn’t be a bad thing for you to marry me. You have no idea how good I should be to you. I have money and position. You like me, and you will like me better. And for me well, it hardly seems fair to tell you what it would mean to me.”

“Why not fair?” asked the girl, pained by his eagerness, and wishing it all over.

“I’ve always thought that appealing ad misericordiam was taking a mean advantage. If I do it now, don’t listen to me. But, if I’m worth it to you, Amaryllis, take me, and you shan’t regret it.”

“You are worth anything everything!” she cried, much distressed. “Worth ever so much more, dear Sir Randal, than I could give. But I’d give you all that I am indeed I would if it wasn’t for for ”

“Yes?” he asked. “Go on. Wasn’t for what?”

“If it wasn’t for something that says ‘don’t!’ Oh, please understand. I like you awfully, but it says it, and says it I don’t know why.”

For a moment neither spoke.

“You do understand, don’t you?” she asked at last.

“I believe you, my dear,” he answered; then added gently: “There’s a happier man somewhere, I think.”

Amaryllis opened her eyes wide, almost, it seemed, in fear.

“Oh, no, no!” she cried. “Truthfully, I don’t know any more than I’ve told you.”

When he was gone, she sat for a long time, wishing she could feel alone.

Several times between lunch and dinner that day had Amaryllis wondered why Dick Bellamy was so taciturn silent and sombre almost to moroseness. But Randal had no doubt that he knew.

Dick, the least sullen and most even-tempered of men, was for once at war with himself. The midnight phantom had become a daylight obsession.

Although he thought he knew what women were, he had never reached a definition of “being in love.” For, having more than once believed himself in that condition, he had as often found himself too suddenly free.

Before this English girl had seized upon his thoughts so that nothing else interested him, he had said there was always the car in which to run away.

He was not afraid of offending his brother, for Randal knew him as he knew Randal. But a man does not throw himself into the sea just because there is a lifebuoy handy. Secure, therefore, in his power to escape, it was not until this afternoon that he found decision forced upon him. If he went, there was good chance of freedom; if he stayed, no chance at all.

He was lying on his back, looking up through the branches of a huge tree, when he reached what he considered this clear alternative. He was a man who seldom lied to himself; so now it was with a sudden sharpness that he felt the sting of self-deception.

“I’ve been trying to kid myself that I’m like the damn fool who runs away from the girl he’s getting fond of because he’s afraid of marriage. But I’m not. I’m the coward who’s up to his knees, and funks letting himself all in for fear of not being able to reach what he’s at least able to swim for.”

At dinner, Amaryllis, in sheer kindness of heart, shone with good humour, readiness of reply and flow of conversation. Randal, while he felt that she now and then forced the note, caught her motive, and responding, smoothed her way. But Dick, having from childhood accepted Randal’s immunity from love as an axiom, took it all in good faith, and emerging by quick degrees from his taciturnity, soon had his share of the talk and laughter.

He too had noticed at first a certain strain and effort in the girl’s manner; but put it down to the absence of her father from the table. And so, when the trunk-call came to tell them he was dining with the Secretary of State and would be home late, and Amaryllis seemed to “settle into her stride,” Dick thought of the matter no further, but only of her.

After coffee in the hall, Randal excused himself on the plea of letter-writing, and Amaryllis, alone with his brother, fell silent.

For a minute he watched her unobtrusively, and wondered why the life had gone out of her.

“Sleepy, Miss Caldegard?” he asked at last.

“No,” she replied. “Tired a little and worried. Everybody’s so keen on something. Father on you know what. You, though I’ve never seen you do anything, look keener than any man I ever saw; and Sir Randal’s keen about horrid business-letters. Generally I don’t even want to open mine.”

“’Cause you don’t want to answer ’em,” suggested Dick.

“Yes,” admitted the girl, laughing and suddenly stopped.

“What’s up?” asked Dick.

“You’ve reminded me,” she answered, pressing the bell beside her, “that there’s one of my letters this morning that I never looked at. We were talking such a lot. I remember the look of the envelope. I haven’t a notion what was in it.”

“Might be money,” suggested Dick.

“Or bad news,” said Amaryllis. “I hate letters. When you want them, they don’t say enough. When you don’t, they say too much.” Then, to the parlour-maid she had summoned: “I have left some letters on my table. If there’s one that hasn’t been opened, please bring it to me.” And to Dick: “I wonder what it’s like having dinner with Home Secretaries.”

“Nearest I’ve been to it was having breakfast with a Prime Minister,” he answered. “It was soon over, and not so bad as it might have been. The omelette was dispersed by shrapnel, and a machine-gun found the range of the coffee-pot.”

“What did the Prime Minister do?” asked the girl.

“Forgot where the door was, and went out of office by the window.”

“Was it a war?”

“Oh, no,” said Dick. “Only Mexico.”

The parlour-maid returned with a sealed letter. Until she was gone, Amaryllis eyed the writing on the envelope with reluctant displeasure; then looked at Dick.

“Please do,” he said.

When she had glanced at the letter.

“I wish you’d said don’t,” she complained. “Neither money nor bad news. Foolishness from an unpleasant person that’s all.”

On the point of tearing it, she checked herself.

“It’s dad’s business after all,” she murmured, more to herself than Dick; and rising, went upstairs quickly, as about to return.

As she disappeared from the eyes which could not help watching her, Randal came up the narrow corridor from the study. Dick sank back into his chair and looked up at his brother.

“Billiards?” said Randal. “Give me fifty, and I’ll play you a hundred up.”

Dick shook his head. “Too lazy,” he answered.

“Miss Caldegard gone to bed?” asked Randal.

“Looked as if she was coming back though she did say she was tired.”

“Then I’ll practise that canon you were showing me. See you again,” said Randal, and went upstairs.

In the passage above he met Amaryllis. The sound of their voices, but not their words, trickled down to Dick in the hall.

Then she came; and the man, lest he should show in his face the pleasure that came with her, did not look at the girl until she was at the foot of the stair; and when he did raise his eyes, it was to find hers averted, and to see her turn at once to her left and make for the study. Just as she was disappearing into the narrow corridor, he saw, or thought that he saw, her white shoulder shaken by a sob without sound.

With an eager instinct he sprang to his feet and sat down again. If she wanted his help, she would ask for it.

Almost at once, however, he rose again, unsatisfied and restless; and hardly knew what he was doing before he found himself at the study door, and in his ears a sound which told him that he had read her shoulders correctly.

He went in, closing the door as softly as he had opened it.

Randal had left his shaded lamp burning on the writing-table. And there, shining head bent over the table and lit by the broad circle of light, her body shaken with suppressed sobbing, was Amaryllis.

Dick was close to her before he realized that she had not heard his approach. Gently he touched her arm.

Without starting, she looked round at him, and he saw the tears on her face.

“Excuse my butting in,” he said. “Do tell me what’s the matter.”

The girl tried to speak and failed.

“I’m a stranger to almost everybody here,” he said. “When you’re in a hole, the stranger’s about the best man to take troubles to.”

Amaryllis shook her head.

“Come, let’s see if I can’t help,” pleaded Dick.

In her mind Amaryllis, as she felt the tender concern of his voice, and looked up into the brown face above the white shirt-front, was struck with a consoling sense of protection, and knew that, while he was the last person she could “take her trouble to,” yet his was the sympathy which would most surely soften, if it could not remove, any misfortune which could ever befall her.

“I can’t I can’t! I wish I could,” she said, winking her eyes. “But I’m going to be good. Please be a dear, Mr. Bellamy, and go back to the hall. I shall be all right soon.”

“Promise?”

“Honest,” said Amaryllis.

Dick closed the door behind him, and walked up the passage with the limp which was always more strongly marked in moments of preoccupation.

The balls were clicking in the billiard-room upstairs, and he hesitated with a foot on the lowest step. But the bond of the protection which had been accepted even while confidence had been withheld, seemed to tie him to the post she had assigned him.

He lit a cigar, sank into the very chair he had left, and let his mind revert to his discontented mood of the afternoon, laughing softly as he admitted that it had needed only the trace of trouble on that charming face to convince him that he was indeed “all in.”

Something in the girl’s face as she looked up at him had planted a seed of hope.

A clock somewhere struck softly and many times. The cigar had been a dead stump between his teeth for how long Dick did not know.

Randal’s voice broke his reverie.

“I’m sick of knocking the balls about,” he said. “Come and give me a game, you slacker.”

“Eleven!” exclaimed Dick. “Of course I’ll play. Let’s go and fetch Miss Caldegard and I’ll play the two of you.”

“All right,” said Randal. “Where is she?”

“In your study,” replied Dick, leading the way. It was an hour since he had left her and he was anxious to rouse the girl from her depression.

He opened the door, entered quickly, and stopped.

“Good God, she’s gone!” he exclaimed.

“What d’you mean?” asked Randal.

“I left her here about an hour ago,” said Dick. “She’s not come out this way. There’s something wrong.”

“My dear boy, don’t excite yourself,” said his brother. “Here’s the french-window. I expect she’s out there.”

“With bare shoulders and thin dress? It’s been raining like hell since ten o’clock. I tell you there’s something wrong,” said Dick, taking one stride to the table, and lifting the lamp above his head. He glanced swiftly round the room.

“Look at your safe,” he said.

Randal, impressed by his brother’s tone, went quickly to the alcove, between whose looped curtains showed the green door of a safe embedded in the wall. Before he touched it,

“My God! There’s a key!” he said.

“Where’s yours?” snapped Dick.

“Here,” said Randal, pulling a bunch from his pocket.

“Look inside.”

Randal turned the key, swung back the heavy door, groped for a minute, and swung round with a face like death.

“What’s gone?” cried Dick.

“Caldegard’s drug-bottle and formula!”