you say half-past nine, Miss Vanrenen?" he asked, turning
to snatch one last look at Cynthia.

"Yes. Good-night--and thank you."

She offered her hand to him before them all. The touch of her cool
fingers was infinitely sweet, but when he strove to surprise some hint
of her thought in those twin pools of limpid light that were wont to
gaze at him so fearlessly he failed, for all the daring had fled from
Cynthia, and he knew--how Heaven and lovers alone can tell--that her
heart was beating with a fright she had not felt when he staggered
under the relentless pressure of the river while holding her in his
arms.

To the lookers-on the girl's outstretched hand was a token of
gratitude; to Medenham it carried an acknowledgment of that equality
which should reign between those who love. His head swam in a sudden
vertigo of delight, and he hurried away without uttering a word. There
were some, perhaps, who wondered; others who saw in his brusqueness
nothing more than the confusion of an inferior overwhelmed by the
kindly condescension of a young and charming mistress; but the one
who did fully and truly interpret the secret springs of his action
went suddenly white to the lips, and her voice was curiously low and
strained as she turned to Mrs. Devar.

"Come, dear," she murmured, "I am tired, it would seem; and you, you
must be quite worn out with anxiety."

"My darling child," gushed Mrs. Devar, "I should have been nearly dead
if I had not known that Fitzroy was with you, but he is one of those
men who inspire confidence. I refused to admit even to myself that
anything of evil consequence could happen to you while he was present.
How fortunate we were that day in town----"

The man who had suggested that the hotel pharmacist could dispense hot
drinks other than lemonade nudged an acquaintance.

"Our chauffeur friend has a rippin' nice job," he whispered.
"Wouldn't mind taking his billet myself--it 'ud be a change from
everlastin' goff. Hello! Where is he? I meant to----"

Medenham had gone, striding away up the hillside in a very frenzy
of happiness. Four days, and Cynthia as good as won! Was it possible,
then, that the disguised prince of the fairytale could be a
reality--that such romances might still be found in this gray old
world? Four days! He could not be deeper in love with Cynthia had he
known her four years, or forty, and he was certain now that he had
really loved her before he had been in her company fou