She did not add that she had tried all her own wiles on Chris with humiliating failure.

"I am so sorry for you," she pursued softly, "but you should really insist that she leave the house."

Marie walked past her and opened the door.

"Please go," she said.

"But, Mrs. Lawless---"

"Please go." Marie said again.

"Oh, well, of course, if you wish it!" Mrs. Heriot pa.s.sed her jauntily and went out into the hall, just as Chris opened the front door and came in.

Mrs. Heriot smiled and held out her hand.

"I was so afraid I should have to run away without seeing you," she said. "We have had such a delightful afternoon. Where have you been, you bad man!"

Chris made some vague answer. His eyes had gone past her to where his wife stood at the study door. She was very pale but quite self-possessed, and she even smiled faintly as she met his eyes.

"Mrs. Heriot is just going," she said clearly. "Perhaps you will see her out, Chris."

She went back to the library, and stood staring before her with blank eyes. She had always hated Mrs. Heriot and distrusted her, but something told her that this time, at all events, the widow had spoken the truth. The facts seemed to fit so completely into the chain of last night's events--Dorothy's tears, Chris' pre-occupation, and her own instinctive feeling that all was not right.

She heard Chris close the front door and come into the room behind her, and she forced herself to turn.

"Dorothy and Aunt Madge are in the drawing-room," she said stiffly.

He barred the way when she would have pa.s.sed him.

"Well, there is no hurry to join them, is there? How did you get on at the bazaar this afternoon?"

"We only stayed a little while. We had our fortunes told."

"Silly child! What did they tell you?"

"Oh ... lots of things! Nothing that I believe, though."

She stood apathetically with his arm round her. She longed to tear herself from him, but she was afraid that once she gave way to the storm of pa.s.sionate anger that was rending her she would never be able to control herself.

"I was sorry afterwards that I did not come with you," Chris said.

"Feathers wouldn't come out. He's packing--he's off the day after to-morrow."

"The day after to-morrow?"

"Yes--something has happened to make him change his mind, I suppose. He's going, anyway."

Marie's heart felt like a stone, though every nerve in her body was throbbing and burning at fever point.

Feathers was going! After to-morrow she would not be able to get to him, no matter how pa.s.sionately she longed to do so.

This man whose arms were about her now cared nothing for her. He had lied to her, and pretended and deceived her. She felt that she hated him.

"What's the matter, Marie Celeste?" Chris asked, abruptly. "Aren't you well? You look so white."

"Do I? It's nothing; I'm quite well." She moved past him, and he made no effort to stop her, but she knew that his eyes were following her as she went upstairs.

What did she mean to do? She did not know. Possible and impossible plans flitted through her mind. First she thought she would tell Chris that she had found out about Dorothy--then that she would not tell him, would not stoop to let him think she cared.

Did she care? She did not know. Her whole being was in the throes of some new, strange pa.s.sion.

Perhaps even up in Scotland he had made love to Dorothy, and that was why he had stayed so long. Perhaps he had known that she was coming to London, and had even asked her to the house! Marie hid her face.

She would not stay with him. She would go away--she would go away with Feathers, if he would take her.

She longed for him as a homesick child longs for its father. He would be kind to her, he would understand.

Dorothy came tapping at the door. She held an open telegram in her hand.

"Marie, I've got to go home." She gave her the message to read without another word.

Marie took it mechanically, but the words danced meaninglessly before her eyes:

"Ronnie died this morning. Come at once."

Ronnie was Dorothy's brother, she knew. She looked at the girl's white face and quivering lips, but she felt no pity for her.

"I'm sorry--so sorry," she said, but the words were meaningless.

She went with Dorothy to her room and helped her pack. She telephoned for the car and told Miss Chester.

"Someone must go with her; she ought not to travel alone," the old lady said, in distress. "Surely Chris will go. It is only kind."

Marie's face burned. Oh, yes, there was no doubt Chris would go-- would be glad to go. She heard Miss Chester make the suggestion to him, and held her breath while she waited for him to answer.

If he agreed she would know that he was guilty. If he refused there would be just a hope that Mrs. Heriot had lied.

But Chris turned to her.

"Would you like me to go, Marie?"

She hated him, because he left it for her to settle. She could not trust herself to look at him.

"Aunt Madge thinks someone should go, and I can't," she said. He agreed hastily.

"Of course, you can't; I will go, if you wish it. I shan't be able to get back till to-morrow," he said. "It will be too late to catch a train back to-night."

Marie did not answer, and he went away. She gave him no chance to say good-bye to her. He kissed her cheek hurriedly before he followed Dorothy to the waiting car, and he looked back anxiously as he closed the door.

"I'll be back as soon as possible to-morrow," he said.