ou will remember, Baron," I said, speaking at random, but gravely, and
as though some special meaning lurked in my words, "that this young lady
comes of a race who do not readily change. She has made her choice, and
her answer to you is my answer. She will remain with us!"

The Baron stepped out again into the rich-scented twilight.

"You hold strong cards, Mr. Arnold Greatson," he said, "but I see their
backs only. How do I know that you speak the truth? From whom have you
learnt the story of this young lady's antecedents?"

"From Mr. Grooten," I answered boldly.

"I do not know the name," the Baron protested.

"He is the man," I said, "who set Isobel free!"

The Baron said something to himself in German, which I did not
understand.

"You mean the man who shot Major Delahaye?" he asked.

"I do!"

"Then I would to Heaven I knew whose identity that name conceals," he
cried fiercely.

"You would not dare to publish it," I answered, "for to do so would be
to give Isobel's story to the world."

"And why should I shrink from that?" he asked.

I laughed.

"Ask your august mistress," I declared. "It seems to me that we know
more than you think."

The Baron looked over his shoulder and spoke to his companions. From
that moment I knew that we had conquered. One of them left and went
outside to where the motor-car, with its great flaring lights, still
stood. Then the Baron faced me once more.

"Mr. Greatson," he said, "you are playing a game of your own, and for
the moment I must admit that you hold the tricks against me. But it is
well that I should give you once more this warning. If you should decide
upon taking one false step--you perhaps know very well what I
mean--things will go ill with you--very ill indeed."

Then he turned away, and our little garden was freed from the presence
of all of them. We heard the starting of the car. Presently it glided
away. We listened to its throbbing growing fainter and fainter in the
distance. Then there was silence. A faint breeze had sprung up, and was
rustling in the shrubs. From somewhere across the moor we heard the
melancholy cry of the corncrakes. A great sob of relief broke from
Isobel's throat--then suddenly her arm grew heavy upon mine. We hurried
her into the house.

CHAPTER VIII

The perfume from a drooping lilac-bush a few feet away from the open
casement was mingled with the fainter odour of jessamine and homely
stocks. In the soft morning suns