at
peaceful land, the theatre of the recent war, lay bathed in the soft rose
of the autumn afterglow, while the bright clearness of the sky,
pale-green and gold, foretold a frost.

"Yes, splendid!" responded his father-in-law mechanically; but he was
thinking of something far more serious than the beauties of the western
sky. He was thinking of the grip in which he was held by the doctor of
Pimlico. At any moment, if he cared to collapse, he could make ten
thousand pounds in a single day. The career of many a man has been
blasted for ever by the utterance of cruel untruths or the repetition of
vague suspicions. Was his son-in-law, Le Pontois, in jeopardy? He could
not think that he was. How could the truth come out? Sir Hugh asked
himself. It never had before--though his friend had made a million
sterling, and there was no reason whatever why it should come out now. He
had tested Weirmarsh thoroughly, and knew him to be a man to be trusted.

As he strolled on at his son-in-law's side, chatting to him, he was full
of anxiety as to the future. He had left England, it was true. He had
defied the doctor. But the latter had been inexorable. If he continued in
his defiance, then ruin must inevitably come to him.

Blanche and Enid had already returned, and at dusk all four sat down to
dinner together with little Ninette, for whom "Aunt Enid" had brought a
new doll which had given the child the greatest delight.

The meal ended, the bridge-table was set in the pretty salon adjoining,
and several games were played until Sir Hugh, pleading fatigue, at last
ascended to his room.

Within, he locked the door and cast himself into a chair before the big
log fire to think.

That day had indeed been a strenuous one--strenuous for any man. So
occupied had been his brain that he scarcely recollected any
conversations with those smart debonair officers to whom Paul had
introduced him.

As he sat there he closed his eyes, and before him arose visions of
interviews in dingy offices in London, one of them behind Soho Square.

For a full hour he sat there immovable as a statue, reflecting, ever
recalling the details of those events.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet with clenched hands.

"My God!" he cried, his teeth set and countenance pale. "My God! If
anybody ever knew the truth!"

He crossed to the window, drew aside the blind, and looked out upon the
moonlit plains.

Below, his daughter was still playing the piano and singin