tly interrupted.

"Ah! That's the way when a woman steps in." Kenna's lips twisted in a
bitter grin. Sarle turned to April.

"Diana . . ."

"That is the very crux of the matter," rapped out, Kenna. "_She is
not_ Diana."

"What in God's name----?" began Sarle.

"What I want to know," pursued Kenna sombrely, "is--why, if Diana
Vernilands jumped overboard, does this girl go masquerading under her
title?"

"Are you mad?" Sarle stared from one to the other. "Haven't you known
her all your life? Did you not meet as old friends?"

Kenna shrugged. "I never set eyes on her until that day at the 'Mount
Nelson.' She was a friend of yours and chose to call herself by the
name of a friend of mine, and . . . I humoured her . . . and you. But
the thing has gone too far. After inquiries among other passengers I
have realized the truth--that it was Diana who . . ." A spasm of pain
flickered across his melancholy eyes. Sarle, in grave wonder and hurt,
turned to April.

"It is true," she cried bitterly, pierced to the heart by his look.
"Diana is drowned. I am a masquerader." Even if she had been nothing
to him he could not have remained unmoved by the desperate pleading of
her eyes. But he happened to love her with the love that casts out
fear, and distrust, and all misunderstanding.

"I am the real April Poole," she said, broken, but resolute that at
least there should be no further mistake. He gave her one long look,
then lifted her hand, and held it closer. The gesture was for all the
world to see. But Kenna had not finished with her.

"You will allow a natural curiosity in me to demand why you should wear
the name and retain the possessions of my friend Lady Diana
Vernilands?" he asked, dangerously suave.

Then Clive sprang full-armed to the fray.

"And you will allow a natural curiosity in me to demand why you should
harry my friend like this--browbeat her for a girlish folly entered
into mutually by two girls and ending in tragedy through no fault of
April's?" The painter's eyes burned with a blue fire bleak as her own
mountain tops. It was as though Joan of Arc had come to the rescue and
was sweeping the room with valiant sword. Even Kenna was partially
intimidated.

"That is her story," he muttered.

"You fool, Ronald Kenna," she said gently. "Can't you look in her face
and see there is no touch of treachery or darkness there? Thank God,
Kerry is not so blind."

There was a deep silenc