e ambassador looked
sourly on Lionel and climbed slowly up the hill. Lionel, disappointed
but not resentful, watched him drive from the next tee.

He followed him round without result, and in the fulness of time saw him
leave the golf-house and walk dejectedly home. After watching him enter
The Happy Heart, Lionel made his way peacefully to The Quiet House,
hoping Miss Arkwright would have returned. In this he was not
disappointed, for the silent footman bowed in answer to his question and
held the door invitingly open. Lionel accepted the unspoken welcome,
entered and was shown into the drawing-room. The footman placed a chair
and motioned that he should sit down. Lionel obeyed with a vague feeling
that something was amiss. Was it the silence of the footman that gave
him an uncanny impression, or was it the atmosphere of the house? He had
heard of presentiments of ill under similar circumstances and had
disbelieved them all, but now it was different ... he was uneasy. After
sitting uncomfortably in his chair, half expecting it to play some
goblin trick upon him, he got up and began to look at a picture hanging
above the mantelpiece.

He was still busy with his scrutiny when he heard the door open and
close again behind him. Turning at the sound, he saw a lady standing
perfectly still in the middle of the room. Lionel gasped, and almost
fell. "_You!_" he quavered, sure now that wizardry was at work. "_You!_"

"Please sit down," said a grave voice. "I am Miss Arkwright."

Lionel pulled himself together with an effort, but he did not sit down.

"No," he objected steadily. "I am sorry to contradict you, but that is
not true. You are playing a trick on me for some reason that I can not
understand. But I swear that you are not Miss Arkwright."

The lady smiled, as one who soothes a maniac.

"Indeed?" she said courteously. "Then perhaps you will tell me who I
am?"

"You are Miss Beatrice Blair," said Lionel in a hard voice. He was
bitterly disappointed, and no wonder.

"Beatrice Blair?" repeated the other, with an astonishment that could
not but be genuine. "Whom do you mean? Who is Beatrice Blair?"

"She was playing last night at the Macready Theater," returned Lionel
with a patient dignity. "How she contrives to be at Shereling at this
hour, mystifying a poor wretch whose only fault is a too ardent
devotion, I can not explain."

This he thought rather a fine speech, and he was relieved to see the
clearing of