Mabane laid down his brush, Arthur sprang from his seat upon the table and greeted me with a shout.  Isobel said nothing, but her dark blue eyes were fastened upon my face as though seeking to read her fate there.  They had evidently been waiting for my coming.  I remember thinking it strange, even then, that these other two men should apparently share to the fullest degree my own interest in the child’s fate.

“I have failed,” I announced shortly.

I took Isobel’s hand.  It was cold as ice, and I could feel that she was trembling violently.

“Madame Richard would tell me nothing, Isobel,” I said.  “I believe that she knows all about you, and I believe that Lady Delahaye does too.  But they will tell me nothing.”

“And?” she demanded, with quivering lips.  “And?”

“It is for you to decide,” I said gravely.  “Lady Delahaye wants you, so does Madame Richard.  On the other hand, if you like to stay with us until someone proves their right to take you away, you will be very welcome, Isobel!  Stop one moment,” I added hastily, for I saw the quick colour stream into her cheeks, and the impetuous words already trembling upon her lips, “I want you to remember this:  Madame Richard makes no secret of her own wishes as regards your future.  She desires you to take the veil.  You have lived at the convent, so I presume you are able to judge for yourself as regards that.  Lady Delahaye, on the other hand, is a rich woman, and she professes to be your friend.  Your life with her, if she chose to make it so, would be an easy and a pleasant one.  We, as you know, are poor.  We have very little indeed to offer you.  We live what most people call a shiftless life.  We have money one day, and none the next.  Our surroundings and our associations are not in the least like what a child of your age should become accustomed to.  Nine people out of ten would probably pronounce us utterly unsuitable guardians for you.  It is only right that you should understand these things.”

She looked at me with tear-bedimmed eyes.

“I want to stay with you,” she pleaded.  “Don’t send me away ­oh, don’t!  I hate the convent, and I am afraid of Lady Delahaye.  I will do everything I can not to be a nuisance to you.  I am not afraid to work, or to help Mrs. Burdett.  Only let me stay.”

I smiled, and looked around at the others.

“It is settled,” I declared.  “We appoint ourselves your guardians.  You agree, Mabane?”

“Most heartily,” he answered.

“And you, Arthur?”

“Great heavens, yes!” he answered vehemently.

“You are very good,” she murmured, “very good to me.  All my life I shall remember this.”

She held out both her hands.  Her eyes were fixed still upon mine.  Mabane laid his hand upon her shoulder.

“Dear child,” he said, “do not forget that there are three of us.  I too am very happy to be one of your guardians.”

She gave him the hand which Arthur had seized upon.  I think that we had none of us before seen a smile so dazzling as hers.

“Dear friends,” she murmured, “I only hope that you will never regret this great, great kindness.”

Then suddenly she flitted away and went to her room.  We three men were left alone.

I think that for the first few moments there was some slight awkwardness, for we were men, and we spoke seldom of the things which touched us most.  Arthur, however, broke almost immediately into speech, and relieved the tension.

“And to think that it was I,” he exclaimed, “who sent you out plot hunting to the station!  Arnold, what a sensible chap you are!”

We all laughed.

“A good many people,” Mabane remarked quietly, “would call us three fools.  Tell us, Arnold, did you really discover nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing,” I declared.  “Stop, though.  I did find out this.  There is some secret about the child’s parentage.  I have spoken with two people who know it, and one of them warned me that in keeping the child we were interfering in a greater matter than we had any idea of.  Of course it might have been a bluff, but I fancy that Lady Delahaye was in earnest.”

“You do not think,” Mabane asked, “that she was Major Delahaye’s daughter?”

“I do not,” I answered, with a little shudder.  “I am sure that she was not.”

“Whoever she is,” Arthur declared, “there’s one thing jolly certain, and that is she’s thoroughbred.  She has the most marvellous nerve I ever knew.  We got in a tight corner this morning.  I took her down to Guildford in a trailer, and I had to jump the pavement to avoid a runaway.  She never flinched for a moment.  Half the girls I know would have squealed like mad.  She only laughed, and asked whether she should get out.  She’s as thoroughbred as they make them.”

“Perhaps,” I answered, “but I’m not going to have you risk her life with your beastly motoring, Arthur.  Take her out in a car, if you want to.  Who’s this?”

We turned towards the door.  Was it the ghost of Madame Richard who stood there pale, cold, and in the sombre garb of her sisterhood?

“This lady has been before,” Mabane said, placing a chair for her.  “She has come from the convent, and she brought a letter from Madame Richard.”

“You are Mr. Greatson?” she asked.

I bowed, and took the letter which she handed to me.  I tore it open.  It contained a few lines only.

     “SIR, ­

“I have been informed of the unfortunate event which has placed under your protection one of my late pupils, Isobel de Sorrens.  We are willing and anxious to receive her back here, and I have sent the bearer to accompany her upon the journey.  She will also defray what expenses her sojourn with you may have occasioned.

     “I am, sir, yours respectfully,

     “EMILY RICHARD.”

I put the letter back in the envelope and laid it upon the table.

“I have seen Madame Richard,” I said.  “The child will remain with us for the present.”

The cold, dark eyes met mine searchingly.

“But, monsieur,” the woman said, “how can that be?  You are not a relative, you surely have no claim ­”

“It will save time, perhaps,” I interrupted, “if I explain that I have discussed all these matters with Madame Richard, and the decision which I have come to is final.  The child remains here.”

The woman looked at me steadfastly.

“Madame Richard will not be satisfied with that decision,” she said.  “You will be forced to give her up.”

“And why,” I asked, “should a penniless orphan, as I understand Isobel is, be of so much interest to Madame Richard?”

The woman watched me still, and listened to my words as though seeking to discover in them some hidden meaning.  Then she leaned a little towards me.

“Can I speak with you alone, monsieur?” she said.

“These are my friends,” I answered, “from whom I have no secrets.”

“None?”

“None,” I repeated.

She hesitated.  Then, although the door was fast closed, she dropped her voice.

“You know ­who the child is,” she said softly.

“Upon my word, I do not,” I answered.  “I saw the man, under whose care she was, shot, and I brought her here because she was friendless.  I know no more about her.”

“That,” she said quietly, “is hard to believe.”

“I have no interest in your belief or disbelief,” I answered.  “Pardon me if I add, madame, that I have no interest in the continuation of this conversation.”

She rose at once.

“You are either a very brave man,” she said, “or a very simple one.  I shall await further instructions from Madame Richard.”

She departed silently and without any leave-taking.  We all three looked at one another.

“Now what in thunder did she mean by that!” Arthur exclaimed blankly.

“It appears to me,” Mabane said, “that you went plot hunting with a vengeance, Arnold.”

Arthur was walking restlessly up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, a discontented frown upon his smooth young face.  He stopped suddenly in front of us.

“I don’t know much about the law, you fellows,” he said, “but it seems to me that any of these people who seem to want to take Isobel away from us have only to go before the court and establish some sort of a legal claim, and we should have to give her up.”

“That is true enough,” I admitted.  “The strange part of it is, though, that no one seems inclined to take this course.”

Arthur threw down a letter upon the table.

“This came for you yesterday, Arnold,” he said.  “I haven’t opened it, of course, but you can see from the name at the back of the envelope that it is from a firm of solicitors.”

I took it up and opened it at once.  I knew quite well what Arthur feared.  This is what I read ­

     “17, LINCOLN’S INN, LONDON.

     “DEAR SIR, ­

“We beg to inform you that we have been instructed by a client, who desires to remain anonymous, to open for you at the London and Westminster Bank an account on your behalf as guardian of Miss Isobel de Sorrens, a young lady who, we understand, is at present in your care.

“The amount placed at our disposal is three hundred a year.  We shall be happy to furnish you with cheque book and full authority to make use of this sum if you will favour us with a call, accompanied by the young lady, but we are not in a position to afford you any information whatever as to our client’s identity.

     “Trusting to have the pleasure of seeing you shortly,

     “We are, yours truly,

     “HAMILTON & PLACE.”

I laid the letter on the table without a word.  Mabane and Arthur in turn read it.  Then there was an ominous silence.  I think that we all had the same thought.  It was Arthur, however, who expressed it.

“What beastly rot!” he exclaimed.

I turned to Mabane.

“I imagine,” he said, “that we should not be justified in refusing this offer.  At the same time, if anyone has the right to provide for the child, why do they not come forward and claim her?”

At that moment Isobel came in.  I took up the letter and placed it in her hand.

“Isobel,” I said, “we want you to read this.”

She read it, and handed it back to me without a word.  We were all watching her eagerly.  She looked at me appealingly.

“Is it necessary,” she asked, “for me to accept this money?”

“Tell us,” I said, “exactly how you feel.”

“I think,” she said, “that if there is anyone from whom I have the right to accept all this money, I ought to know who they are.  I do not want to be a burden upon anyone,” she added hesitatingly, “but I would rather work every moment of the day ­oh, I think that I would rather starve than touch this money, unless I know who it is that offers it.”

I laughed as I tore the letter in half.

“Dear child,” I said, resting my hand upon her shoulder, “that is what we all hoped that you would say!”