arrangement. He smilingly protested that there was no deception in the
matter.

"Helen would never consent to anything that savoured of subterfuge," he
explained. "Her father knows well that she hears from me constantly. He is
a studious, reserved old gentleman. He was very much shocked by the
tragedy, and his daughter's innocent association with it. He told me quite
plainly that, under the circumstances, I ought to consider the engagement
at an end. Possibly I resented an imputation not intended by him. I made
some unfair retort about his hyper-sensitiveness, and promptly sent Helen
a formal release. She tore it up, and at the same time accepted it so far
as I was concerned. We met at Mrs. Eastham's house--that good lady has
remained my firm friend throughout--and I don't mind telling you, Brett,
that I broke down utterly. Well, we began by sending messages to each
other through Mrs. Eastham. Then I forwarded to Helen, in the same way, a
copy of a rough diary of my travels. She wrote to me direct; I replied.
The position now is that she will not marry me without her father's
consent, and she will marry no one else. He is aware of our
correspondence. She always tells him of my movements. The poor old rector
is worried to know how to act for the best. His daughter's happiness is at
stake, and so my unhappy affairs have drifted aimlessly for more than a
year."

"The drifting must cease," said Brett decisively. "Beechcroft Hall will
probably provide scope for activity."

They reached Stowmarket by a late train. Next morning they drove to
Sleagill--a pretty village, with a Norman church tower standing squarely
in the midst of lofty trees, and white-washed cottages and red-tiled
villa-residences nestling in gardens.

"A bower of orchards and green lanes," murmured the barrister as their
dog-cart sped rapidly over the smooth highway.

Hume was driving. He pointed out the rectory. His eyes were eagerly
searching the lawn and the well-trimmed garden, but he was denied a sight
of his divinity. The few people they encountered gazed at them curiously.
Hume was seemingly unrecognised.

"Here is Mrs. Eastham's house," he said, checking the horse's pace as they
approached a roomy, comfortable-looking mansion, occupying an angle where
the village street sharply bifurcated. "And there is Beechcroft!"

The lodge faced the road along which they were advancing. Beyond the gates
the yew-lined drive, with its selvages of deep green t