d set her white cap at all indifferently. Thus, just before
Clara knocked on that memorable Sunday afternoon, Polly, being confined
to the house by the unwritten code regulating the lives of servants, was
amusing herself by flirting with Peters.

"You _are_ fond of me a little bit," the graceless Tom whispered,
"aren't you?"

"You know I am, sir," Polly replied.

"You don't care for anyone else in the house?"

"Oh no, sir, and never let anyone kiss me but you. I wonder how it is,
sir?" Polly replied ingenuously.

"Give me another," Tom answered.

She gave him another, and tripped to the door to answer Clara's knock.

[Illustration: POLLY AND ROXDAL.]

And that very evening, when Clara was gone and Tom still out, Polly
turned without the faintest atom of scrupulosity, or even jealousy, to
the more fascinating Roxdal, and accepted his amorous advances. If it
would seem at first sight that Everard had less excuse for such
frivolity than his friend, perhaps the seriousness he showed in this
interview may throw a different light upon the complex character of
the man.

"You're quite sure you don't care for anyone but me?" he asked
earnestly.

"Of course not, sir!" Polly replied indignantly. "How could I?"

"But you care for that soldier I saw you out with last Sunday?"

"Oh no, sir, he's only my young man," she said apologetically.

"Would you give him up?" he hissed suddenly.

Polly's pretty face took a look of terror. "I couldn't, sir! He'd kill
me. He's such a jealous brute, you've no idea."

"Yes, but suppose I took you away from here?" he whispered eagerly.
"Somewhere where he couldn't find you--South America, Africa, somewhere
thousands of miles across the seas."

"Oh, sir, you frighten me!" whispered Polly, cowering before his ardent
eyes, which shone in the dimly-lit passage.

"Would you come with me?" he hissed. She did not answer; she shook
herself free and ran into the kitchen, trembling with a vague fear.

CHAPTER IV.

THE CRASH.

One morning, earlier than his earliest hour of demanding his shaving
water, Tom rang the bell violently and asked the alarmed Polly what had
become of Mr. Roxdal.

"How should I know, sir?" she gasped. "Ain't he been in, sir?"

"Apparently not," Tom answered anxiously. "He never remains out. We have
been here three weeks now, and I can't recall a single night he hasn't
been home before twelve. I can't make it out." All enquiries proved
futile. Mrs. Seac