ady
Arabella's capacity to deal with any crisis that might arise.
Nevertheless, they had wired her the Normandy address from Rome, in case
of necessity. The next moment Gillian had torn open the telegram and she
and Dan were reading it together.

"Magda insists we return to London on Wednesday. She has completed
preliminary arrangements to join sisterhood and goes there Thursday.
Impossible to dissuade her.--ARABELLA WINTER."

Gillian's mouth set itself in a straight line of determination as her
eyes raced along the score or so of pregnant words. She was silent a
moment. Then she met Storran's questioning glance.

"We can just do it," she said sternly. "To-day is Wednesday. By crossing
to Southampton to-night, we can make London to-morrow."

Without waiting for his reply she entered the inn and ran quickly up the
stairs which the landlady had already ascended.

"But, madame, I am not sure that monsieur will receive anyone,"
protested the astonished woman, turning round as Gillian caught up with
her.

"I must see him," asserted Gillian quietly.

Perhaps something in the tense young face touched a sympathetic chord
in the Frenchwoman's honest heart. She scented romance, and when she
emerged from the invalid's bedroom her face was wreathed in smiles.

"It is all arranged. Will madame please to enter?"

A moment later Gillian found herself standing in front of a tall, gaunt
figure of a man, whose coat hung loosely from his shoulders and whose
face was worn and haggard with something more than _la grippe_ alone.

"Oh, Michael!"

A little, stricken cry broke from her lips. What men and women make each
other suffer! She realised it as she met the stark, bitter misery of
the grey eyes that burned at her out of the thin face and remembered the
look on Magda's own face when she had last seen her.

She went straight to the point without a word of greeting or of
explanation. There was no time for explanations, except the only one
that mattered.

"Michael, why didn't you answer Lady Arabella's letter?"

He stared at her. Then he passed his hand wearily across his forehead.

"Letter? I don't remember any letter."

"She wrote to you about a month ago. I know the letter was forwarded on
to Rome. It must have followed you here."

"A month ago?" he repeated.

Then a light broke over his face. He turned and crossed the room to
where a small pile of letters lay on a table, dusty and forgotten.

"Perhaps it's her