ore. Sir
Terence turned into his study, sank into the chair by his desk and sat
there awhile staring into vacancy, a diabolical smile upon his handsome,
mobile mouth. Gradually the smile faded and horror overspread his face.
Finally he flung himself forward and buried his head in his arms.

There were steps in the hall outside, a quick mutter of voices, and then
the door of his study was flung open, and Miss Armytage came sharply to
rouse him.

"Terence! What has happened to Captain Tremayne?"

He sat up stiffly, as she sped across the room to him. She was wrapped
in a blue quilted bed-gown, her dark hair hung in two heavy plaits, and
her bare feet had been hastily thrust into slippers.

Sir Terence looked at her with eyes that were dull and heavy and that
yet seemed to search her white, startled face.

She set a hand on his shoulder, and looked down into his ravaged,
haggard countenance. He seemed suddenly to have been stricken into an
old man.

"Mullins has just told me that Captain Tremayne has been ordered under
arrest for--for killing Count Samoval. Is it true? Is it true?" she
demanded wildly.

"It is true," he answered her, and there was a heavy, sneering curl on
his upper lip.

"But--" She stopped, and put a hand to her throat; she looked as if she
would stifle. She sank to her knees beside him, and caught his hand in
both her own that were trembling. "Oh, you can't believe it! Captain
Tremayne is not the man to do a murder."

"The evidence points to a duel," he answered dully.

"A duel!" She looked at him, and then, remembering what had passed
that morning between Tremayne and Samoval, remembering, too, Lord
Wellington's edict, "Oh, God!" she gasped. "Why did you let them take
him?"

"They didn't take him. I ordered him under arrest. He will report
himself to Colonel Fletcher in the morning."

"You ordered him? You! You, his friend!" Anger, scorn, reproach and
sorrow all blending in her voice bore him a clear message.

He looked down at her most closely, and gradually compassion crept into
his face. He set his hands on her shoulders, she suffering it passively,
insensibly.

"You care for him, Sylvia?" he said, between inquiry and wonder.
"Well, well! We are both fools together, child. The man is a dastard,
a blackguard, a Judas, to be repaid with betrayal for betrayal. Forget
him, girl. Believe me, he isn't worth a thought."

"Terence!" She looked in her turn into that distorted face. "Are y