So I was driven back to Argueil, the red-tiled, sleepy old town, with its great gaunt church, whose windows, as the lumbering cart descended the hill, were stained blood-red by the dying sunset.  Behind, on the hillside, was the convent, with its avenue of stunted elms, its close-barred windows, its terrible prison-like silence.  As I looked behind, holding on to the sides of the springless cart to avoid being jostled into the road, I found myself shivering.  The convent boarding-schools which I had heard of had been very different sort of places.  Even after my brief visit there this return into the fresh country air, the smell of the fields, the colour and life of the rolling landscape, were blessed things.  I was more than ever satisfied with my decision.  It was not possible to send the child back to such a place.

Across a great vineyard plain, through which the narrow white road ran like a tightly drawn band of ribbon, I came presently to the village of Argueil.  The street which led to the inn was paved with the most abominable cobbles, and I was forced to hold my hat with one hand and the side of the cart with the other.  My blue-smocked driver pulled up with a flourish in front of the ancient gateway of the Leon d’Or, and I was very nearly precipitated on to the top of the broad-backed horse.  As I gathered myself together I was conscious of a soft peal of laughter ­a woman’s laughter, which came from the arched entrance to the inn.  I looked up quickly.  A too familiar figure was standing there watching me, ­Lady Delahaye, trim, elegant, a trifle supercilious.  By her side stood the innkeeper, white-aproned and obsequious.

I clambered down on to the pavement, and Lady Delahaye advanced a little way to meet me.  She held out a delicately gloved hand, and smiled.

“You must forgive my laughing, Arnold,” she said.  “Really, you looked too funny in that terrible cart.  What an odd meeting, isn’t it?  Have you a few minutes to spare?”

“I believe,” I answered, “that I cannot get away from this place till the evening.  Shall we go in and sit down?”

She shook her head.

“The inn-parlour is too stuffy,” she answered.  “I was obliged to come out myself for some fresh air.  Let us walk up the street.”

I paid for my conveyance, and we strolled along the broad sidewalk.  Lady Delahaye seemed inclined to thrust the onus of commencing our conversation upon me.

“I presume,” I said, “that we are here with the same object?”

She glanced at me curiously.

“Indeed!” she remarked.  “Then tell me why you came.”

“To discover that child’s parentage, if possible,” I answered promptly.  “I want to discover who her friends are, who really has the right to take charge of her.”

“You perplex me, Arnold,” she said thoughtfully.  “I do not understand your position in the matter.  I always looked upon you as a somewhat indolent person.  Yet I find you now taking any amount of trouble in a matter which really does not concern you at all.  Whence all this good-nature?”

“Lady Delahaye ­”

“Eileen,” she interrupted softly.

“Lady Delahaye,” I answered firmly.  “You must forgive me if I remind you that I have no longer the right to call you by any other name.  I am not good-natured, and I am afraid that I am still indolent.  Nevertheless, I am interested in this child, and I intend to do my utmost to prevent her returning to this place.”

“I am still in the dark,” she said, looking at me curiously.  “She is nothing to you.  A more unsuitable home for her than with three young men I cannot imagine.  You seem to want to keep her there.  Why?  She is a child to-day, it is true ­but in little more than a year’s time she will be a woman.  The position then for you will be full of embarrassments.”

“I find the position now,” I answered, “equally embarrassing.  We can only give the child up to you, send her back to the convent, or keep her ourselves.  Of the three we prefer to keep her.”

“You seem to have a great distaste for the convent,” she remarked, “but that is because you are not a Catholic, and you do not understand these things.  She would at least be safe there, and in time, I think, happy.”

We were at the head of the village street now, upon a slight eminence.  I pointed backwards to the prison-like building, standing grim and desolate on the bare hillside.

“I should consider myself no less a murderer than the man who shot your husband,” I answered, “if I sent her there.  I have made all the enquiries I could in the neighbourhood, and I have added to them my own impressions.  The secular part of the place may be conducted as other places of its sort, but the great object of Madame Richard’s sister is to pass her pupils from that into the religious portion.  Isobel is not adapted for such a life.”

Lady Delahaye shrugged her shoulders.

“Well,” she said, “I am a Catholic, so of course I don’t agree with you.  But why do you hesitate to give the child up to me?”

I was silent for a moment.  It was not easy to put my feeling into words.

“Lady Delahaye,” I said, “you must forgive my reminding you that on the occasion of your visit to us you did not attempt to conceal the fact that your feelings towards her were inimical.  Beyond that, I was pledged not to hand her back into your husband’s care, and ­”

“Pledged by whom?” she asked quickly.

“I am afraid,” I said, “that I cannot answer you that question.”

She flashed an angry glance upon me.

“You pretend that the man who called himself Grooten was not your friend.  Yet you have been in communication with him since!”

“I saw Mr. Grooten for the first time in my life on the morning of that day,” I answered.

“You know where he is now?” she asked, watching me keenly.

“I have not the slightest idea.  I wish that I did know,” I declared truthfully.  “There is no man whom I am more anxious to see.”

“You would, of course, inform the police?” she asked.

“I am afraid not,” I answered.

Again she was angry.  This time scarcely without reason.

“Your sympathies, in short, are with the murderer rather than with his victim ­the man who was shot without warning in the back?  It accords, I presume, with your idea of fair play?”

“Lady Delahaye,” I said, “the subject is unpleasant and futile.  Let us return to the inn.”

She turned abruptly around.  She made a little motion as of dismissal, but I remained by her side.

“By-the-bye,” I said, “we were to exchange confidences.  You are here, of course, to visit the convent?  Why?”

She smiled enigmatically.

“I am not sure, my very simple conspirator,” she said, “whether I will imitate your frankness.  You see, you have blundered into a somewhat more important matter than you have any idea of.  But I will tell you this, if you like.  You may call that place a prison, or any hard names you please ­yet it is destined to be Isobel’s home.  Not only that, but it is her only chance.  I am putting you on your guard, you see, but I do not think that it matters.  You are fighting against hopeless odds, and if by any chance you should succeed, your success would be the most terrible thing which could happen to Isobel.”

I walked by her side for a moment in silence.  There was in her words and tone some underlying note of fear, some suggestion of hidden danger, which brought back to my mind at once the farewell speech of Madame Richard.  There was something ominous, too, in her presence here.

“Lady Delahaye,” I said, as lightly as possible, “you have told me a great deal, and less than nothing at all.  Yet I gather that you know more about the child and her history than you have led me to suppose.”

“Yes,” she admitted, “that is perhaps true.”

“Why not let me share your knowledge?” I suggested boldly.

“You carry candour,” she remarked, smiling, “to absurdity.  We are on opposite sides.  Ah, how delicious this is!”

We were regaining the centre of the little town by a footpath which for some distance had followed the river, and now, turning almost at right angles, skirted a cherry orchard in late blossom.  The perfume of the pink and white buds, swaying slightly in the breeze, came to us both ­a waft of delicate and poignant freshness.  Lady Delahaye stood still, and half closed her eyes.

“How perfectly delicious,” she murmured.  “Arn ­Mr. Greatson, do get me just the tiniest piece.  I can’t quite reach.”

I broke off a small branch, and she thrust it into the bosom of her dress.  The orchard was gay with bees and a few early butterflies, blue and white and orange coloured.  In the porch of a red-tiled cottage a few yards away a girl was singing.  Suddenly I stopped and pointed.

“Look!”

An avenue with a gate at the end led through the orchard, and under the drooping boughs we caught a glimpse of the convent away on the hillside.  Greyer and more stern than ever it seemed through the delicate framework of soft green foliage and blossoms.

“Lady Delahaye,” I said, “you are yourself a young woman.  Could you bear to think of banishing from your life for ever all the colour and the sweet places, all the joy of living?  Would you be content to build for yourself a tomb, to commit yourself to a living death?”

She answered me instantly, almost impulsively.

“There is all the difference in the world,” she declared.  “I am a woman; although I am not old, I know what life is.  I know what it would be to give it up.  But the child ­she knows nothing.  She is too young to know what lies before her.  As yet her eyes are not opened.  Very soon she would be content there.”

I shook my head.  I did not agree with Lady Delahaye.

“Indeed no!” I protested.  “You reckon nothing for disposition.  In her heart the song of life is already formed, the joy of it is already stirring in her blood.  The convent would be slow torture to her.  She shall not go there!”

Lady Delahaye smiled ­mirthlessly, yet as one who has some hidden knowledge which she may not share.

“You think yourself her friend,” she said.  “In reality you are her enemy.  If not the convent, then worse may befall her.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“As to that,” I said, “we shall see!”

We resumed our walk.  Again we were nearing the inn.  Lady Delahaye looked at me every now and then curiously.  My feeling towards her had grown more and more belligerent.

“You puzzle me, Arnold,” she said softly.  “After all, Isobel is but a child.  What cunning tune can she have played upon your heartstrings that you should espouse her cause with so much fervour?  If she were a few years older one could perhaps understand.”

I disregarded her innuendo.

“Lady Delahaye,” I said, “if you were as much her friend as I believe that I am, you would not hesitate to tell me all that you know.  I have no other wish than to see her safe, and amongst her friends, but I will give her up to no one whom I believe to be her enemy.”

“Arnold,” she answered gravely, “I can only repeat what I have told you before.  You are interfering in greater concerns than you know of.  Even if I would, I dare not give you any information.  The fate of this child, insignificant in herself though she is, is bound up with very important issues.”

Our eyes met for a moment.  The expression in hers puzzled me ­puzzled me to such an extent that I made her no answer.  Slowly she extended her hand.

“At least,” she said, “let us part friends ­unless you choose to be gallant and wait here for me until to-morrow.  It is a dreary journey home alone.”

I took her hand readily enough.

“Friends, by all means,” I answered, “but I must get back to Paris to-night.  A messenger from Madame Richard is already waiting for me in London.”

She withdrew her hand quickly, and turned away.

“It must be as you will, of course,” she said coldly.  “I do not wish to detain you.”

Nevertheless, her farewell look haunted me as I sped across the great fertile plain on my way to Paris.