rims under her eyes. She had the appearance of one who had
come into touch with fearsome things.

"What do you want with me?" she asked. "Why are you here?"

"To be with you," he answered. "You know why."

She laughed mirthlessly.

"Better go back," she exclaimed. "I am no fit companion for any one
to-day. I came out to be alone."

A gust of wind came tearing up the hillside. They both struggled for
breath.

"I came," he said, "to find you. I was going to the house. Something has
happened which you ought to know."

She looked back towards the long white front of the house, and there was
terror in her eyes.

"Something is happening there," she muttered, "and I am afraid."

He took her gloveless hand. It was as cold as ice. She did not resist
his touch, but her fingers lay passively in his.

"Let me be your friend," he pleaded. "Never mind what has happened, or
what is going to happen. You are in trouble. Let me share it with you."

"You cannot," she answered. "You, nor any one else in the world. Let me
go! You don't understand!"

"I understand more than you think!" he answered.

She turned her startled eyes upon him.

"What do you mean?" she cried.

"I mean that the man whom we employed to trace the whereabouts of
Phyllis Poynton and her brother arrived from Paris last night," he
answered. "He wanted a list of Lord Runton's house party. Can you guess
why?"

"Go on!"

"Mr. Fielding, of New York, left Havre on Saturday----"

"Stop!"

Her voice was a staccato note of agony. Between the fingers which were
pressed to her face he could see the slow, painful flushing of her
cheeks.

"Why did you come to tell me this?" she asked in a low tone.

"You know," he answered.

"Did you guess last night that we were impostors?" she asked.

"Certainly not," he answered. "Andrew was tortured with doubts about
you. He believed that you were Phyllis Poynton!"

"I am!" she whispered. "I was afraid of him all the evening. He must
have known."

It seemed to Duncombe that the rocks and gorse bushes were spinning
round and the ground was swaying under his feet. The wind, which had
kept them both half breathless, seemed full of mocking voices. She was
an impostor. These were her own words. She was in danger of detection,
perhaps of other things. At that very moment Spencer might have gained
an entrance into Runton Place. He felt uncertain of himself, and all the
time her eyes watched him jealously.

"Why did yo