se I will," she replied. "But why? You've got a reason."

Gillian nodded.

"Yes," she acknowledged quietly. "I'm going to Paris--to find Michael."

Lady Arabella, whose high spirits had wilted a little in the face of
the double disappointment regarding any answer from Quarrington, beamed
satisfaction.

"You blessed child!" she exclaimed. "I'd have gone myself, but my old
body is so stiff with rheumatism that I don't believe they'd get me on
board the boat except in an ambulance!"

"Well, I'm going," said Gillian. "Only the point is, Magda mustn't know.
If she thought I was going off in pursuit of Michael I believe she'd
lock me up in the cellar. She intends never to let him see her again.
Melrose will manage about the letters, and somehow you've got to prevent
Magda from coming to Friars' Holm and finding out that I'm not there."

"I'll take her away with me," declared Lady Arabella.
"Rheumatism--Harrogate. It's quite simple."

Gillian heaved a sigh of relief.

"Yes. That would be a good plan," she agreed. "Then I'd let you know
when we should arrive--"

"'We?'"

"Michael and I. I'm not coming back without him. And you could bring
Magda straight back to town with you."

Lady Arabella's keen old eyes searched her face.

"You sound very certain of success. Supposing you find Michael still
unforgiving--and he refuses to return with you?"

"I believe in Michael," replied Gillian steadily. "He's made mistakes.
People in love do. But when he knows all that Magda has endured--for his
sake, really--why, he'll come back. I'm sure of it."

"I don't know, my dear. _I_ was sure he would come back within six
months. But, you see, I was wrong. Men are kittle cattle--and often
very slow to arrive at the intrinsic value and significance of things.
A woman jumps to it while a man is crawling round on his hands and knees
in the dark, looking for it with a match."

Gillian laughed and got up to go, and Lady Arabella--whose rheumatism
was quite real at the moment--rose rather painfully and hobbled down the
room beside her, her thin, delicate old hand resting on the silver knob
of a tall, ebony walking-stick.

"Now, remember," urged Gillian. "Magda mustn't have the least suspicion
Michael may be coming back--or she'd be off into her slums before you
could stop her. _Whatever happens_, you've got to prevent her rushing
back to the Sisters of Penitence."

"Only over my dead body, my dear," Lady Arabella assured her
deter