great importance."

"It is," said I. "You went to see Madame Brandt."

"I did," she replied, looking at me steadily, "and I have tried to write
to you, but it is more difficult than I thought."

"Well," said I, "it's no use writing now, for you've managed to drive
her out of the country."

She half rose in her chair and regarded me with wide-blue eyes.

"I've driven her out of the country?"

"Yes; with her maid and her belongings and Anastasius Papadopoulos's
troupe of performing cats, and Anastasius Papadopoulos's late pupil and
assistant Quast. She has given up her comfortable home in London and now
proposes to be a wanderer among the music-halls of Europe."

"But that's not my fault! Indeed, it isn't."

"She says in a letter I received this morning bearing no address, that
if you hadn't come to her like God's good angel, she would have remained
in London."

Eleanor looked bewildered. "I thought I had made it perfectly clear to
her."

"Made what clear?"

She blushed a furious red. "Can't you guess? You must be as stupid as
she is. And, of course, you're wildly angry with me. Aren't you?"

"I certainly wish you hadn't gone to see her."

"Was it merely to tell me this that you ordered me to come here?" she
asked, with a touch of anger in her voice, for however much like God's
good angels young women may be, they generally have a spirit of their
own.

I felt I had been wanting in tact; also that I had put myself--through
an impetuosity foreign to what I had thought to be my character--in a
foolish position. If I replied affirmatively to her question, she
would have served me perfectly right by tossing her head in the air and
marching indignantly out of the room. I temporised.

"In order to understand the extraordinary consequences of your
interview, I should like to have some idea of what took place. I know,
my dear Eleanor," I continued as gently as I could, "I know that you
went to see her out of the very great kindness of your heart--"

"No, I didn't."

I made a little gesture in lieu of reply. There was a span of silence.
Eleanor played with the silky ears of Agatha's little Yorkshire terrier
which had somehow strayed into the room and taken possession of her lap.

"Don't you see, Simon?" she said at last, half tearfully, without taking
her eyes off the dog, "don't you see that by accusing me in this way
you make it almost impossible for me to speak? And I was going to be so
loyal to you."

A