continued.

"The maid walked often abroad alone, like this Lady Philida, who at this moment is with her fostermother under the same roof that covers us. She went home, as Lady Philida will return, by a road which half a mile from here, passes a lonely corner where the pines encroach upon the path." He held her gaze as he continued. "Lilith had her chaise windows darkened. The plan was safe, absurdly safe. A few words whispered to a girl by a lady, beautiful and injured. And if she kept this girl a few days from the world and there were insufficient explanations upon her reappearance, behold Mistress Grundy would prepare a blot to eclipse an escutcheon of Norman descent."

She made a movement of impatience.

"La, Mr. Mansur, your romance is a fiction and poor fiction, or the lady a fool. To steal a girl in broad daylight! A few questions, and the whole countryside would tell whither they went."

"The lady was no fool," said Mr. Mansur. "She knew there was a road, rutty and little frequented, that led past the spot where she captured the girl for miles by devious ways before it joined the turnpike."

"Whither did she take her?" she asked.

"To an estate of hers, remotely situated, and an old haunt of the Jacobites."

She recognised the description of a seat of her family, which had reverted to her from the distaff side. Even at the moment she wondered how he had knowledge of it. She laughed at his last phrase.

"La, Mr. Mansur, Jacobite? I thought the scene was laid in France!"

"So it was," he answered coolly, "but even there loyal Englishmen were put to it when kings, for policy, turned curious."

She arose with a gesture of weariness. For a full mo

ment she stood, her finger-tips lightly touching the table, her eyes fixed ahead of her. Her mind was speeding off, arranging details, patching out weak places in the plot. Then she turned to him with a languid suggestion of dismissal in her manner.

"You are no gifted minstrel, Mr. Mansur. Your tale dragged woefully and seemed to have no issue."

"Of that another time, perhaps," he answered with a bow.

"Perchance before we meet again you'll have added a few details. And now, prithee, excuse me, sir. I have ridden far and am weary."

They parted with mutual smiles and compliments, seeking to deceive one another to the last; but just before Mr. Mansur closed the door upon himself, he spoke without turning to look at Lady Caroline.

66 Can you trust your servants?" he asked.

"The fools adore me," she replied.

And upon this interval of candour, Mr. Mansur bowed himself out.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE DUCHESS CREATES ENTANGLEMENTS

Yet doth an officious helper awkwardly prevent her victory. -TUPPER.

THE sun was slanting towards the west, when the duchess looked up from her letter-writing to inquire about Lady Philida. She was told that she had been seen going down the road towards Oxholme village and had not returned.

The duchess made a movement of annoyance. She intended to suppress her niece's wanderings, and the frustration of her plans irritated her. But Philida had never hitherto delayed so late as this. She was conscious of a momentary feeling of alarm, as she saw the pale glow upon the limes without her window, and realised that the sun's weak rays told of its nearness to the western horizon. Within an hour it would be down behind the Malvern Hills.

Despite her occasional outbursts of almost brutal candour, the duchess was in many respects a secretive woman. Much truth, and often unpleasant truth, she told to others, but in unsuspected corners of her heart she jealously cherished certain reservations. Her reticence was capricious. She kept a guard over phases of her experience which many women, more 'discreet, would have confessed without a second thought.

This absence of Philida upon a day of such import, a day too that clothed the girl with an added dignity, gave her especial annoyance. She was anxious to get her safely back and intended to give her a sound rating and a warning. She resolved at the same time that this should be accomplished as quietly as possible. She had had enough

of Sybil's tongue for one day, and she disliked appearing as having indulged the girl to the point of indiscretion.

She threw down her pen and, with her prompt energy, sought her niece in her room and in her usual familiar haunts. She did not find her.

Sybil was upon the terrace, chatting with Sir Geoffrey and Mr. Walpole.

The duchess' alarm increased as the sun neared setting. She determined herself to seek Philida at the Royal Arms.

She donned her Capuchin, and set out upon her quest. The scent of the flowers in the rose garden, as she passed through it, was heavy with the touch of approaching evening. This impressed upon her the lateness of the hour and increased within her the irritation peculiar to quick-tempered people when they are alarmed. She passed along the road by the pine-shadowed corner, turned off across the fields, and entered Mrs. Culpepper's room. In her anxiety, she scarcely vouchsafed to knock.

The hostess of the Royal Arms, her face as placid as usual, in grey stuff dress and white cap and apron, was writing out labels for conserves, in a clear, upright hand. Her unruffled appearance acted like pepper upon the duchess' mood. Mrs. Culpepper looked up in surprise to see that peeress in her brown Capuchin, staff in hand, her face crimson from her rapid walk, glaring at her from the open doorway.

"Where is Lady Philida?" was her imperative demand.

Mrs. Culpepper's pen fell, leaving a trail or black ink upon the paper. Her face flushed pink.

"Lady Philida!" she gasped. "Is she not at home, your grace?"

"At home," echoed the duchess, lowering her voice involuntarily against possible prying ears, “no.”

But she left here two hours since," cried Mrs. Culpepper helplessly.

For the moment she had been too overcome to rise, but she now dropped the duchess a curtsey, and looked back at her pleadingly.

"She told me she was returning by the usual path," she went on.

"This comes of allowing her to tramp about the country," said the duchess. "I should have forbid her long ago. Now," she turned savagely upon the bewildered woman, "what am I to do?"

"There is Michael," whispered Mrs. Culpepper, fluttering towards the door.

The duchess had seated herself and was endeavouring to collect her thoughts.

"Michael?" she said. "Well, fetch him, but not a syllable to anyone beside."

A moment later Michael entered. His intellectual face was pale from the news he had just heard. His slight figure, with its somewhat stooping shoulders, was carried with a dignity free from self-consciousness. The haughty duchess was aware that his presence gave her a sense of support. This usually dominating woman turned towards him without a word. Her manner appealed and questioned.

"I'll search, your grace," he said, as if he made answer, "and make inquiries."

All her authority was in arms again at the last word. "No," she exclaimed, rising; "mind you, no inquiries. I will not have the Lady Philida's name bandied from mouth to mouth about the countryside. Search," she said, "and go about it smartly, but no gossip. Return as soon as may be."

Michael departed, and the hour the duchess waited seemed an eternity. She walked the room; she berated