ou're tired," he said abruptly. "You'd better go to bed." He put a
hand beneath her arm, but she shrank away from him with a fresh spasm
of terror.

"Don't be afraid. I'm not going to kiss you again." He spoke
reassuringly. "Come, let me help you. You can hardly stand."

Once more he took her arm, and, too stunned to offer any resistance,
she allowed him to lead her from the room.

"Will you be all right, now?" he asked anxiously, as they paused at the
foot of the staircase.

She gripped the banister.

"Yes," she answered mechanically. "I shall be all right."

He remained at the bottom of the stairs, watching until her slight
figure had disappeared round the bend of the stairway.

CHAPTER XXIII

A QUESTION OF HONOUR

"Your Great-aunt Rachel is dead, Roger."

Lady Gertrude made this announcement the following morning at
breakfast. In her hand she held the letter which contained the
news--written in an old-fashioned, sloping style of penmanship on thin,
heavily black-bordered note-paper. No one made any reply unless a
sympathetic murmur from Isobel could be construed as such.

"Cousin Emily writes that the funeral is to take place next Thursday,"
pursued Lady Gertrude, referring to the letter she held. "We shall
have to attend it, of course."

"Must we?" asked Roger, with obvious lack of enthusiasm. "I haven't
seen her for at least five years."

"I know." The reply came so sharply that it was evident he had touched
upon a sore subject. "It is very much to be regretted that you
haven't. After all, she must have left at least a hundred thousand to
divide."

"Even the prospect of a share of the spoil wouldn't have compensated
for the infliction of visiting an old termagant like Great-aunt
Rachel," averred Roger unrepentantly.

"I shall be interested to hear the will read, nevertheless," rejoined
Lady Gertrude. "After all, you were her only great-nephew and, in
spite of your inattentiveness, I don't suppose she has overlooked you.
She may even have remembered Isobel to the extent of a piece of
jewellery."

Isobel's brown eyes gleamed--like the alert eyes of a robin who
suddenly perceives the crumbs some kindly hand has scattered on the
lawn.

"I'm afraid we shall have to leave you alone for a night, Nan," pursued
Lady Gertrude with a stiff air of apology.

Nan, engrossed in a long epistle from Penelope, failed to hear and made
no answer. The tremendous fact of great-aunt's death,