de me--look! Anybody sitting here could
see a good deal of the lake!"

He squeezed in beside her, and true enough, through a natural parting in
the branches, which no one could have noticed from outside, the little
creek, with their boat in it, was plainly visible, and beyond it the
lights on the lawn.

"A jolly good observation post for a sniper!" said Geoffrey,
recollections of the Somme returning upon him; so far as he was able to
think of anything but Helena's warm loveliness beside him. Mad thoughts
began to surge up in him.

But an exclamation from Helena checked them:

"I say!--there's something here--in the seat."

Her hand groped near his. She withdrew it excitedly.

"It's a scarf, or a bag, or something. Let's take it to the light. Your
woman, Geoffrey!"

She scrambled down, and he followed her unwillingly, the blood racing
through his veins. But he must needs help her again through the
close-grown branches, and into the boat.

She peered at the soft thing she held in her hand.

"It's a bag, a little silk bag. And there's something in it! Light a
match, Geoffrey."

He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and obeyed her. Their two heads
stooped together over the bag. Helena drew out a handkerchief--torn, with
a lace edging.

"That's not a village woman's handkerchief!" she said, wondering. "And
there are initials!"

He struck another match, and they distinguished something like F.M. very
finely embroidered in the corner of the handkerchief. The match went out,
and Helena put the handkerchief back into the bag, which she examined in
the now full moonlight, as they drifted out of the shadow.

"And the bag itself is a most beautiful little thing! It's shabby and
old, but it cost a great deal when it was new. What a strange, strange
thing! We must tell Cousin Philip. Somebody, perhaps, was watching us all
the time!"

She sat with her chin on her hands, gazing thoughtfully at French, the
bag on her knees. Now that the little adventure was over, and she was
begging him to take her back quickly to the house, Geoffrey was only
conscious of disappointment and chagrin. What did the silly mystery in
itself matter to him or her? But it had drawn a red herring across his
track. Would the opportunity it had spoilt ever return?

CHAPTER X

It was a glorious June morning; and Beechmark, after the ball, was just
beginning to wake up. Into the June garden, full of sun but gently beaten
by a fresh wind,