Sleep refused to come to Claire that night.  She lay tossing on her bed while the old clock in the corridor without struck hour after hour.

Two, three, four, and still she tossed, and turned, and again and again asked herself the world-old question, “What shall I do?  What shall I do?” and shuddered at the thought of the disillusionment which was coming to her poor friend.

What was her own duty in the matter?  Obviously Cecil must be told the truth; obviously she was the one to tell it.  Would it be possible to write?  Inclination clamoured in favour of such a course.  It would be so much easier:  it would obviate the necessity for a lacerating interview.  Would it not be easier for Cecil, also?  Claire felt that if positions had been reversed, she would crave above all things to be alone, hidden from the eyes of even the most sympathising of friends; but Cecil’s nature was of a different type.  Having heard the one abhorrent fact, she would wish to probe further, to be told details, to ask a score of trifling questions.  However full a letter might be, she would not be satisfied without an interview.  “But I might write first, and see her afterwards!” poor Claire said to herself.  “It would not be quite so bad, when she had got over the first shock.  I could not bear to see her face...”

It was five o’clock before at last sleep came to drive away the haunting questions, and when she woke it was to find her early tea had grown cold on the table by her side, and to see on looking at her watch that it was nearly ten o’clock.  She dressed hurriedly and went downstairs to find Mrs Fanshawe alone in the dining-room, reading the Morning Post.  She waved aside Claire’s apologies for her late appearance with easy good nature.  No one was expected to be punctual at breakfast.  It was sheer tyranny to decree that visitors should get up at a definite hour.  If Claire had slept badly, why didn’t she order breakfast in her room, and spend the morning in bed?

“You look a wreck!” she said frankly, and threw down the paper with an impatient gesture.  “Such a nuisance about this bad news.  Erskine seems disgusted with the whole affair.  He has gone off with Major Carew to see what can be done, and is to go straight to the Willoughbys.  So tiresome, for I particularly wanted him to be in good form this afternoon!  What’s it all about?  As it has happened in my house, I think I am entitled to an explanation.  Something to do with Major Carew’s servant?  How can your friend be associated with a servant?  The man has bolted, it appears.  The Major came over half an hour ago to say that he never returned last night.  Thought flight the best policy, I suppose, but what I am waiting to be told, is-what has he done?”

Claire sat down on the nearest chair, feeling more of a wreck than ever.

“Deserted!  A soldier!  But if he is found?  The punishment...”

“He has already been found out, it appears, so that it was a choice between certain punishment if he stayed, or the chance of getting safely away.  I am waiting to hear what it’s all about!”

“Oh, Mrs Fanshawe, it’s so difficult.  It’s not my secret!” cried poor Claire desperately.  “He, this man, has been masquerading under his master’s name.  My friend knew him as Major Carew.  She, they, became very intimate.”

“Engaged, I suppose!  It doesn’t say much for her discrimination.  Her ideas of what constitute a gentleman must be somewhat vague!” Mrs Fanshawe said disagreeably.  She felt disagreeable, and she never made any effort to conceal her feelings, kindly or the reverse.  It was annoying that one of her own guests should be mixed up in an unsavoury scandal with a common soldier:  annoying to have people going about with long faces, when she had planned a festive week.  Really this Claire Gifford was becoming more and more of an incumbrance!  Mrs Fanshawe paused with her hand on the coffee-pot, to ask a pointed question-

“Have you also known this man under his false name, may I ask?”

Claire flushed uncomfortably.

“I met him twice.  Only twice.  For a very short time.”

Mrs Fanshawe did not speak, but she arched her eyebrows in a fashion which was more scorching than words.  “So you, also, are ignorant of what constitutes a gentleman!” said those eyebrows.  “You also have been including my friend’s servant among your acquaintances!”

Claire felt the hopelessness of trying to justify herself, and relapsed into silence also, the while she made a pretence of eating one of the most miserable meals of her life.  According to his mother, Erskine was “quite disgusted” with the whole affair!  Claire’s heart sank at the thought, but she acknowledged that such an attitude would be no more than was natural under the circumstances.  A soldier himself, Captain Fanshawe would be a stern judge of a soldier’s fraud, while his amour propre could not fail to be touched.  Claire had too much faith to believe that his displeasure would be extended to herself, yet she was miserably aware that it was through her instrumentality that he had been brought in contact with the scandal.

In the midst of much confusion of mind only one thing seemed certain, and that was that it was impossible to face a tennis party that afternoon.  Claire made her apologies to Mrs Fanshawe as she rose from the table, and they were accepted with disconcerting readiness.

“Of course!  Of course!  I never imagined that you would.  Under the circumstances it would be most awkward.  I expect by afternoon the story will be the talk of the place.  Your friend, I understand, is still ignorant of the man’s real station?  What do you propose to do with regard to breaking the news?”

“In.  I’m going to write.  I thought I would sit in my room and compose a letter.-It will be difficult!”

“Difficult!” Mrs Fanshawe repeated the word with disagreeable emphasis.  “Impossible, I should say, and, excuse me! cruel into the bargain.  To open a letter from a friend, expecting to find the ordinary chit-chat, and to receive a blow that shatters one’s life!  My dear, it’s unthinkable!  You cannot seriously intend it.”

“You think it would be better if I told, her?” Claire asked anxiously.  “I wondered myself, but naturally I dreaded it, and I thought she might prefer to get over the first shock alone.  I had decided to write first, and see her later on.  But you think...”

“I think decidedly that you ought to break the news in person.  You can lead up to it more naturally in words.  Even the most carefully written letters are apt to read coldly; perhaps the more care we spend on them, the more coldly they read.”

“Yes, that’s true, that’s quite true, but I thought it would be better not to wait.  She is staying at home just now.  I don’t think he will visit her there, for he seemed to shrink from meeting her mother, but he may write and try-” Claire drew herself up on the point of betraying that borrowing of money which was the most shameful feature of the fraud, but Mrs Fanshawe was too much absorbed in her own schemes to notice the omission.  She had seen a way of getting rid of an unwelcome guest, and was all keenness to turn it to account.

“He is sure to try to see her again while he is at large.  He will probably urge her to marry him at once.  You should certainly not defer your visit if it is to be of any use.  How dreadful it would be if she were to marry him under an assumed name!  You mustn’t let us interfere with your arrangement, my dear.  You only promised me ten days, so I can’t grumble if you run away, and for the short time that Erskine is at home, there are so many friends to fit in...  You understand, I am sure, that I am thinking of your own convenience!”

“I understand perfectly, thank you!” Claire replied, her head in the air, the indignant colour dying her cheeks with red.  Mrs Fanshawe’s arguments in favour of haste might be wise enough, but her personal desire was all too plainly betrayed.  And she pointedly ignored the fact that the proposed interview need not have interrupted Claire’s visit, since it and the journey involved could easily have been accomplished in the course of a day.  “I understand perfectly, thank you.  I will go upstairs and pack now.  Perhaps there is a train I could catch before lunch?”

“The twelve-thirty.  That will give you the afternoon in town.  I’ll order a fly from the inn.  I’m so sorry for you, dear!  Most nerve-racking to have to break bad news, but you’ll feel happier when it’s done.  Perhaps you could take the poor thing with you to that sweet little farm!”

Not for the world would Claire have spent the next hour in Mrs Fanshawe’s company.  She hurried to her room, and placing her watch on the dressing-table, so timed her packing that it should not be completed a moment before the lumbering country “fly” drove up to the door.  Then, fully dressed, she descended the staircase, and held out a gloved hand to her hostess, apparently unconscious of an offered kiss.

It was some slight consolation to note the change of bearing which had come over Mrs Fanshawe during the last hour, and to realise that the success of her scheme had not brought much satisfaction.  She was nervous, she was more than nervous, she was afraid!  The while Claire had been packing upstairs, she had had time to realise Erskine’s return, and his reception of the news she would have to break.  As she drove away from the door, Claire realised that her hostess would have paid a large sum down to have been able to undo that morning’s work!

For her own part, Claire cared nothing either way:  literally and truthfully at that moment even the thought of leaving Erskine had no power to wound.  The quickly-following events of the last twenty-four hours had had a numbing effect on her brain.  She was miserable, sore, and wounded; the whole fabric of life seemed tumbling to pieces.  Love, for the moment, was in abeyance.  As the fly passed the last yard of mown grass which marked the boundary of the Fanshawe property, she threw out her arms with one of the expressive gestures, which remained with her as a result of her foreign training. “Fini!” she cried aloud.  Mentally at that moment, she swept the Fanshawes, mother and son, from the stage of her life.

Where should she go next?  Back to solitude, and the saffron parlour?  London in August held no attraction, but the solitary prospect of being able to see Sophie, and at the moment Claire shrank from Sophie’s sharp eyes.  Should she telegraph to the farm, and ask how soon she could be received; and at the same time telegraph to Mary Rhodes asking for an immediate interview?  A few minutes’ reflection brought a decision in favour of this plan, and she drew a pocket-book from her dressing-bag, and busied herself in composing the messages.  One to the farm, a second to Laburnum Crescent announcing her immediate return, then came a pause, to consider the difficult wording of the third.  Would it be possible to drop a word of warning, intelligible to Cecil herself, but meaningless to anyone else who might by chance open the wire?

“Back in town.  Have important news.  Imperative to see you to-day, if possible.  Appoint meeting.  Delay dangerous.”

It was not perfect, but in Claire’s dazed condition it was the best she could concoct, and it left a tactful uncertainty as to whether the news affected herself or Cecil, which would make it the easier to explain.  Claire counted the words and folded the three messages in her hand-bag, ready to be sent off the moment she reached the station.

The fly lumbered on; up a toilsome hill, down into the valley, up another hill on the farther side; then came a scattering of houses, a church, a narrow street lined with shops, and finally the station itself, the clock over the entrance showing a bare four minutes to spare.

The porter labelled the luggage, and trundled it down the platform.  Claire hurried through her business in the telegraph office, and ran after him just as the train slowed down on the departure platform.  One carriage showed two empty corner places on the nearest side, Claire opened the door, seated herself facing the engine, and spread her impedimenta on the cushions.  But few passengers had been waiting, for this was one of the slowest trains in the day, but now at this last moment there came the sound of running footsteps, a man’s footsteps, echoing in strong heavy beats.  With a traveller’s instinctive curiosity Claire leant forward to watch the movements of this late comer, and putting her head out of the window came face to face with Erskine Fanshawe himself.

At sight of her he stopped short, at sight of him she stood up, blocking the window from sight of the other occupants of the carriage; by a certain defiance of pose, appearing to defend it also against his own entrance.  But he did not attempt to enter.  Though he had been running, it was his pallor, not his heat, which struck Claire in that first moment.  He was white, with the pallor of intense anger; the flash of his eyes was like cold steel.  He rested his hands on the sill of the window, and looked up into her face.

“This is my mother’s doing!”

It was a statement, not a question, and Claire made no reply.  She stood stiff and silent, while down the length of the platform sounded the quick banging of doors.

“I got through sooner than I expected and went home to change.  I did not waste time in talking...  I could guess what had happened.  She made it impossible for you to stay on?”

Still silence.  The guard’s whistle sounded shrilly.  Erskine came a step nearer.  His white tense face almost touched her own.

“Claire!” he whispered breathlessly, “will you marry me?”

“Stand back there!  Stand back!” cried an authoritative voice.  The wheels of the carriage rolled slowly forward.  Claire bent forward, and gave her answer in one incisive word-

“No!”

The wheels rolled faster and faster:  left the station, whirled out into the green, smiling plain.