he meant it too. I know the signs of anger in a woman's face as well as
most men, and they were written there plainly enough. So for a most
uncomfortable period of time we waited there until Allan, after a glance
at his watch, went and opened the door. She passed out without remark,
but from the threshold outside she turned and looked at me.

"I warned you once before, Arnold Greatson," she said, "that you were
meddling with greater concerns than you knew of, and that harm would
come to you for it. Now you have chosen to shield a murderer, and to use
your strength upon a woman. These things will not go unforgotten!"

Mabane closed the door, and threw himself into an easy chair.

"For two easy-going sort of fellows, Arnold," he said to me, "we seem to
be making a lot of enemies. Don't you think it would be a good idea if
we drew stumps for a bit?"

"Meaning?" I asked.

"Roseleys!"

"We'll go to-morrow," I declared.

CHAPTER V

"I have never seen anything like this," Isobel said softly. I looked up
from the writing-pad on my knee, and she met my glance with a smile of
contrition.

"Ah," she said. "I forgot that I must not talk. Indeed, I did not mean
to, but--look!"

I followed her eyes.

"Well," I said, "tell me what you see."

"There are so many beautiful things," she murmured. "Do you see how
thick and green the grass is in the meadows there? How the quaker
grasses glimmer?--you call them so, do you not?--and how those yellow
cowslips shine like gold? What a world of colour it all seems. London is
so grey and cold, and here--look at the sea, and the sky, with all those
dear little fleecy white clouds, and the pink and white of all those
wild roses wound in and out of the hedges. Oh, Arnold, it is all
beautiful!"

"Even without a motor-car!" I remarked.

She looked at me a little resentfully.

"Motoring is very delightful," she said, "although you do not like it.
Of course, it would be nice if Arthur were here!"

She looked away from me seawards, and I found myself studying her
expression with an interest which had something more in it than mere
curiosity. At odd times lately I had fancied that I could see it coming.
To-day, for the first time, I was sure. The smooth transparency of
childhood, the unrestrained but almost animal play of features and eyes,
reproducing with photographic accuracy every small emotion and
joy--these things were passing away. Even before her time the child was
see