the close-gripped lips and the hard
set of the protruding jaw. He tugged again at his mustache, scowling at
the doctor, trying to hide his humour.

"Well, that's settled then," he said; "I'll get away
to-morrow--somewhere."

"Whereabouts?" demanded the doctor. "I shall want to let you know how we
progress."

Bennett chose to feel a certain irritation. What business of Pitts was
it whom he went to see, or, rather, where he meant to go?

"You told me to hide away from everybody, not even to allow my mail to
be forwarded. But I'll let you know where to reach me, of course, as
soon as I get there. It won't be far from town."

"And I will take your place here with Mr. Ferriss; somebody will be with
him at every moment, and I shall only wire you," continued the doctor,
"in case of urgent necessity. I want you to have all the rest you can,
and stay away as long as possible. I shan't annoy you with telegrams
unless I must. You'll understand that no news is good news."

* * * * *

On that particular morning Lloyd sat in her room in the old farmhouse
that she always elected to call her home as often as she visited
Bannister. It was some quarter of a mile outside the little village, and
on the road that connected it with the railway at Fourth Lake, some six
miles over the hills to the east. It was yet early in the morning, and
Lloyd was writing letters that she would post at Fourth Lake later in
the forenoon. She intended driving over to the lake. Two days before,
Lewis had arrived with Rox, the ponies and the phaeton. Lloyd's
dog-cart, a very gorgeous, high-wheeled affair, was always kept at
Bannister.

The room in which she now sat was delightful. Everything was white, from
the curtains of the bed to the chintz hangings on the walls. A rug of
white fur was on the floor. The panellings and wooden shutters of the
windows were painted white. The fireplace was set in glossy-white tiles,
and its opening covered with a screen of white feathers. The windows
were flung wide, and a great flood of white sunlight came pouring into
the room. Lloyd herself was dressed in white, from the clean, crisp
scarf tied about her neck to the tip of her canvas tennis shoes. And in
all this array of white only the dull-red flame of her high-piled
hair--in the sunshine glowing like burnished copper--set a vivid note of
colour, the little strands and locks about her neck and ears coruscating
as the breeze from the