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Gwen paused to breathe, and to give her cousin an ardent hug.

“You’ve been a perfect dear about it,” she ended with enthusiasm. “It would never have happened but for you, and–and Mademoiselle Treves. Do you think she hated going back to that man very badly?”

“I think she did,” said Carey.

He was looking, not at Gwen, but straight at the window in front of him. There were deep lines about his eyes, as if he had not slept of late.

“But she needn’t have stayed,” urged Gwen.

He did not answer. In his pocket there lay a slip of paper containing a few brief lines in a woman’s hand.

“I have taken up my burden again, and, God helping me, I will carry it now to the end. You know what it means to me, but I shall always thank you in my heart, because in the hour of my utter weakness you were strong.–NAOMI CONINGSBY.”

The splendid courage that underlay those few words had not hidden from the man the cost of her sacrifice. She had gone voluntarily back into the bandage that once had crushed her to the earth. And he–and he only–knew what it meant to her.

He was brought back to his surroundings by the pressure of Gwen’s arm. He turned and found her looking closely into his face.

“Reggie,” she said, with a touch of shyness, “are you–unhappy–about something?” He did not answer her at once, and she slipped suddenly down upon her knees by his side. “Forgive me, dear old boy! Do you know, I couldn’t help guessing a little? You’re not vexed?”

He laid a silencing hand upon her shoulder.

“I don’t mind your knowing, dear,” he said gently.

And he stooped, and kissed her forehead. She clung to him closely for a second. When she rose, her eyes were wet. But, obedient to his unspoken desire, she did not say another word.

When she was gone Carey roused himself from his preoccupation, and concentrated his thoughts upon his correspondence. He was leaving England in two days, and travelling to the East on a solitary shooting expedition. He did not review the prospect with much relish, but inaction had become intolerable to him, and he had an intense longing to get away. He had arranged to return to town that afternoon.

It was towards luncheon-time that he left his room, and, descending, came upon Lady Emberdale in the hall. She turned to meet him, a slight flush upon her face.

“No doubt Gwen has told you our piece of news?” she said.

He held out his hand.

“It is official, is it? I am very glad. I wish you joy with all my heart.”

She accepted his congratulations with a gracious smile.

“I think everyone is pleased, including those absurd children. By the way, here is a note just come for you, brought by a groom from Crooklands Manor. I was going to bring it up to you, as he is waiting for an answer.”

He took it up and opened it hastily, with a murmured excuse. When he looked up, Lady Emberdale saw at once that there was something wrong. She began to question him, but he held the note out to her with a quick gesture, and she took it from him.

“My husband met with an accident while motoring this morning,” she read. “He has been brought home, terribly injured, and keeps asking for you. Can you come?

“N. CONINGSBY.”

Glancing up, she saw Carey, pale and stern, waiting to speak.

“Send back word, ‘Yes, at once,'” he said. “And perhaps you can spare me the car?”

He turned away without waiting for her reply, and went back to his room, crushing the note unconsciously in his hand.

X

“And the sea–gave up–the dead–that were in it.” Haltingly the words fell through the silence. There was a certain monotony about them, as if they had been often repeated. The speaker turned his head from side to side upon the pillow uneasily, as if conscious of restraint, then spoke again in the tone of one newly awakened. “Why doesn’t that fellow come?” he demanded restlessly. “Did you tell him I couldn’t wait?”