ONE evening, a few days after Sir Hugh had paid another visit to Haudiomont, he was smoking with Paul prior to retiring to bed when the conversation drifted upon money matters ­some investment he had made in England in his wife’s name.

Paul had allowed his father-in-law to handle some of his money in England, for Sir Hugh was very friendly with a man named Hewett in the City, who had on several occasions put him on good things.

Indeed, just before Sir Hugh had left London he had had a wire from Paul to sell some shares at a big profit, and he had brought over the proceeds in Treasury notes, quite a respectable sum.  There had been a matter of concealing certain payments, Sir Hugh explained, and that was why he had brought over the money instead of a cheque.

As they were chatting Sir Hugh, referring to the transaction, said: 

“Hewett suggested that I should have it in notes ­four five-hundred Bank of England ones and the rest in Treasury notes.”

“I sent them to the Credit Lyonnais a few days ago,” replied his son-in-law.  “Really, Sir Hugh, you did a most excellent bit of business with Hewett.  I hope you profited yourself.”

“Yes, a little bit,” laughed the old general.  “Can’t complain, you know.  I’m glad you’ve sent the notes to the bank.  It was a big sum to keep in the house here.”

“Yes, I see only to-day they’ve credited me with them,” was his reply.  “I hope you can induce Hewett to do a bit more for us.  Those aeroplane shares are still going up, I see by the London papers.”

“And they’ll continue to do so, my dear Paul,” was the reply.  “But those Bolivian four per cents. of yours I’d sell if I were you.  They’ll never be higher.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Hewett warned me.  He told me to tell you.  Of course, you’re richer than I am, and can afford to keep them.  Only I warn you.”

“Very well,” replied the younger man, “when you get back, sell them, will you?”

And Sir Hugh promised that he would give instructions to that effect.

“Really, my dear beau-pere,” Paul said, “you’ve been an awfully good friend to me.  Since I left the army I’ve made quite a big sum out of my speculations in London.”

“And mostly paid with English notes, eh?” laughed the elder man.

“Yes.  Just let me see.”  And, taking a piece of paper, he sat down at the writing-table and made some quick calculations of various sums.  Upon one side he placed the money he had invested, and on the other the profits, at last striking a balance at the end.  Then he told the general the figure.

“Quite good,” declared Sir Hugh.  “I’m only too glad, my dear Paul, to be of any assistance to you.  I fear you are vegetating here.  But as long as your wife doesn’t mind it, what matters?”

“Blanche loves this country ­which is fortunate, seeing that I have this big place to attend to.”  And as he said this he rose, screwed up the sheet of thin note-paper, and tossed it into the waste-paper basket.

The pair separated presently, and Sir Hugh went to his room.  He was eager and anxious to get away and return to London, but there was a difficulty.  Enid, who had lately taken up amateur theatricals, had accepted an invitation to play in a comedy to be given at General Molon’s house in a week’s time in aid of the Croix Rouge.  Therefore he was compelled to remain on her account.

On the following afternoon Blanche drove him in her car through the beautiful Bois de Hermeville, glorious in its autumn gold, down to the quaint old village of Warcq, to take “fif o’clock” at the chateau with the Countess de Pierrepont, Paul’s widowed aunt.

Enid had pleaded a headache, but as soon as the car had driven away she roused herself, and, ascending to her room, put on strong country boots and a leather-hemmed golf skirt, and, taking a stick, set forth down the high road lined with poplars in the direction of Mars-la-Tour.

About a mile from Lerouville she came to the cross-roads, the one to the south leading over the hills to Vigneulles, while the one to the north joined the highway to Longuyon.  For a moment she paused, then turning into the latter road, which at that point was little more than a byway, hurried on until she came to the fringe of a wood, where, upon her approach, a man in dark grey tweeds came forth to meet her with swinging gait.

It was Walter Fetherston.

He strode quickly in her direction, and when they met he held her small hand in his and for a moment gazed into her dark eyes without uttering a word.

“At last!” he cried.  “I was afraid that you had not received my message ­that it might have been intercepted.”

“I got it early this morning,” was her reply, her cheeks flushing with pleasure; “but I was unable to get away before my father and Blanche went out.  They pressed me to go with them, so I had to plead a headache.”

“I am so glad we’ve met,” Fetherston said.  “I have been here in the vicinity for days, yet I feared to come near you lest your father should recognise me.”

“But why are you here?” she inquired, strolling slowly at his side.  “I thought you were in London.”

“I’m seldom in London,” he responded.  “Nowadays I am constantly on the move.”

“Travelling in search of fresh material for your books, I suppose?  I read in a paper the other day that you never describe a place in your stories without first visiting it.  If so, you must travel a great deal,” the girl remarked.

“I do,” he answered briefly.  “And very often I travel quickly.”

“But why are you here?”

“For several reasons ­the chief being to see you, Enid.”

For a moment the girl did not reply.  This man’s movements so often mystified her.  He seemed ubiquitous.  In one single fortnight he had sent her letters from Paris, Stockholm, Hamburg, Vienna and Constanza.  His huge circle of friends was unequalled.  In almost every city on the Continent he knew somebody, and he was a perfect encyclopaedia of travel.  His strange reticence, however, always increased the mystery surrounding him.  Those vague whispers concerning him had reached her ears, and she often wondered whether half she heard concerning him was true.

If a man prefers not to speak of himself or of his doings, his enemies will soon invent some tale of their own.  And thus it was in Walter’s case.  Men had uttered foul calumnies concerning him merely because they believed him to be eccentric and unsociable.

But Enid Orlebar, though she somehow held him in suspicion, nevertheless liked him.  In certain moods he possessed that dash and devil-may-care air which pleases most women, providing the man is a cosmopolitan.

He was ever courteous, ever solicitous for her welfare.

She had known he loved her ever since they had first met.  Indeed, has he not told her so?

As they walked together down that grass-grown byway through the wood, where the brown leaves were floating down with every gust, she glanced into his pale, dark, serious face and wondered.  In her nostrils was the autumn perfume of the woods, and as they strode forward in silence a rabbit scuttled from their path.

“You are, no doubt, surprised that I am here,” he commenced at last.  “But it is in your interests, Enid.”

“In my interests?” she echoed.  “Why?”

“Regarding the secret relations between your stepfather and Doctor Weirmarsh,” he answered.

“That same question we’ve discussed before,” she said.  “The doctor is attending to his practice in Pimlico; he does not concern us here.”

“I fear that he does,” was Fetherston’s quiet response.  “That man holds your stepfather’s future in his hand.”

“How ­how can he?”

“By the same force by which he holds that indescribable influence over you.”

“You believe, then, that he possesses some occult power?”

“Not at all.  His power is the power which every evil man possesses.  And as far as my observation goes, I can detect that Sir Hugh has fallen into some trap which has been cunningly prepared for him.”

Enid gasped and her countenance blanched.

“You believe, then, that those consultations I have had with the doctor are at his own instigation?”

“Most certainly.  Sir Hugh hates Weirmarsh, but, fearing exposure, he must obey the fellow’s will.”

“But cannot you discover the truth?” asked the girl eagerly.  “Cannot we free my stepfather?  He’s such a dear old fellow, and is always so good and kind to my mother and myself.”

“That is exactly my object in asking you to meet me here, Enid,” said the novelist, his countenance still thoughtful and serious.

“How can I assist?” she asked quickly.  “Only explain, and I will act upon any suggestion you may make.”

“You can assist by giving me answers to certain questions,” was his slow reply.  The inquiry was delicate and difficult to pursue without arousing the girl’s suspicions as to the exact situation and the hideous scandal in progress.

“What do you wish to know?” she asked in some surprise, for she saw by his countenance that he was deeply in earnest.

“Well,” he said, with some little hesitation, glancing at her pale, handsome face as he walked by her side, “I fear you may think me too inquisitive ­that the questions I’m going to ask are out of sheer curiosity.”

“I shall not if by replying I can assist my stepfather to escape from that man’s thraldom.”

He was silent for a moment; then he said slowly:  “I think Sir Hugh was in command of a big training camp in Norfolk early in the war, was he not?”

“Yes.  I went with him, and we stayed for about three months at the King’s Head at Beccles.”

“And during the time you were at the King’s Head, did the doctor ever visit Sir Hugh?”

“Yes; the doctor stayed several times at the Royal at Lowestoft.  We both motored over on several occasions and dined with him.  Doctor Weirmarsh was not well, so he had gone to the east coast for a change.”

“And he also came over to Beccles to see your stepfather?”

“Yes; twice, or perhaps three times.  One evening after dinner, I remember, they left the hotel and went for a long walk together.  I recollect it well, for I had been out all day and had a bad headache.  Therefore, the doctor went along to the chemist’s on his way out and ordered me a draught.”

“You took it?”

“Yes; and I went to sleep almost immediately, and did not wake up till very late next morning,” she replied.

“You recollect, too, a certain man named Bellairs?”

“Ah, yes!” she sighed.  “How very sad it was!  Poor Captain Bellairs was a great favourite of the general, and served on his staff.”

“He was with him in the Boer War, was he not?”

“Yes.  But how do you know all this?” asked the girl, looking curiously at her questioner and turning slightly paler.

“Well,” he replied evasively, “I ­I’ve been told so, and wished to know whether it was a fact.  You and he were friends, eh?” he asked after a pause.

For a moment the girl did not reply.  A flood of sad memories swept through her mind at the mention of Harry Bellairs.

“Yes,” she replied, “we were great friends.  He took me to concerts and matinées in town sometimes.  Sir Hugh always said he was a man bound to make his mark.  He had earned his D.S.O. with French at Mons and was twice mentioned in dispatches.”

“And you, Enid,” he said, still speaking very slowly, his dark eyes fixed upon hers, “you would probably have consented to become Mrs. Bellairs had he lived to ask you?  Tell me the truth.”

Her eyes were cast down; he saw in them the light of unshed tears.

“Pardon me for referring to such a painful subject,” he hastened to say, “but it is imperative.”

“I thought that you were ­were unaware of the sad affair,” she faltered.

“So I was until quite recently,” he replied.  “I know how deeply it must pain you to speak of it, but will you please explain to me the actual facts?  I know that you are better acquainted with them than anyone else.”

“The facts of poor Harry’s death,” she repeated hoarsely, as though speaking to herself.  “Why recall them?  Oh! why recall them?”