She smiled faintly in the moonlight, and for once there was no mockery in her smile.

"We have wandered from our original metaphor of a battlefield," she said gently, "but I like your simile of a ship better. Yes, I suppose that is what I was trying to convey--in a confused fashion, I'm afraid. We each have our voyage to complete, our ship to bring into harbour; and even though sometimes it seems about to founder"--he knew she alluded to the catastrophe of her own life--"we must not let it sink if we can keep it afloat."

For a moment there was silence between them; and again they heard the melancholy hoot of the owl, flying homewards now.

Then Anstice said slowly:

"You are right, of course. But"--at last his pent-up bitterness burst its bounds and overflowed in quick, vehement speech--"it's easy enough for a man to handle his ship carefully when he has some precious thing on board--or even when he knows some welcoming voice will greet him as he enters--at last--into his haven. But the man whose ship is empty, who has no right to expect even one greeting word--is there no excuse for him if he navigate the seas carelessly?"

"No." In the moonlight she faced him, and her eyes looked oddly luminous. "For a derelict's the greatest danger a boat can encounter on the high seas ... all our boats cross and recross the paths of others, you know, and no man has the right to place another's ship in peril by his own--carelessness."

"By G.o.d, you're right," he said vehemently; and she did not resent his hasty speech. "Mrs. Carstairs, you've done more for me to-night than you know--and if I can repay you I will, though it cost me all I have in the world."

"You can repay me very easily," she said, holding out her hand, all the motherhood in her coming to the surface. "Save Cherry--she is all _I_ have--now--in the world; and her little barque, at least, was meant to dance over summer seas."

"G.o.d helping me, I will save her," he said, taking her hand in a quick, earnest clasp; and then he entered his waiting car and drove away without another word, a new courage in his heart.

And as Chloe gently closed the heavy door on the peaceful, fragrant world without and returned to the little room where Cherry lay in an uneasy slumber, she knew that a faint suspicion which had crossed her mind earlier in the summer had been verified to-night.

"He too loved Iris," she said to herself, with a rather sad little smile. "And I thought--once--that she was ready to love him in return.

But, I suppose she preferred Bruce. Only"--Chloe had no illusions on the subject of her brother--"I believe Dr. Anstice would have made her a happier woman than Bruce will ever be able to do. And if he"--she did not refer to Cheniston now--"has lost his chance of happiness to-day, no wonder he feels that he has been in h.e.l.l. For there is no h.e.l.l so terrible as the one in which a soul who loves wanders alone, without its beloved," said the woman whose husband had left her because of a cruel doubt. "From the bottom of my heart I pity that man to-night!"

And then, re-entering Cherry's little room, pathetic now in its very brightness of colouring, Chloe forgot all else in the world save the child who slept, in the narrow bed, watched by Margaret Trevor's soft, brooding eyes.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

On a cold and frosty morning in November Anstice was sitting over his solitary breakfast when the telephone-bell rang; and he left his coffee to grow cold while he answered the summons.

It was Sir Richard who was speaking; and even over the wire Anstice thought he detected an unusual note in the older man's voice.

"That you, Anstice? Are you busy, or can you spare me a few minutes this morning?"

"I'll come to Greengates, of course, if you want me, Sir Richard," said Anstice immediately. "But I hope you are not ill--nor Lady Laura?"

"No, my sister's all right--so am I." There was a pause. "But I--well, I'm rather worried, and I want to see you."

"Very well, sir. I'll be round at eleven. Will that suit you?"

"Yes, eleven will do well. _Au revoir_ till then," and Sir Richard rang off with a prompt.i.tude which forbade further discussion for the moment.

As he went back to his cooling coffee Anstice wondered vaguely what Sir Richard could have to say; but since speculation was mere idle waste of time he dismissed the matter from his mind and finished his breakfast in haste.

It was nearly noon when he drove his car up to the great hall door of Greengates; but the words of apology for his tardy arrival died on his lips when he caught sight of Sir Richard's face.

"I say, I'm afraid you're ill, after all!" Anstice was genuinely concerned; and Sir Richard's strained features relaxed into a smile.

"No, I'm perfectly well. Only, as I told you, I have been upset this morning; and--well, I'll explain and you will see there _is_ something to worry about."

Without more ado he walked over to his substantial roll-top desk, and unlocking a drawer took from thence an envelope which he handled gingerly as though it were unpleasing to him.

From the envelope he drew a sheet of thin paper; and Anstice, watching him closely, felt still more mystified by his distasteful expression.

For a moment Sir Richard hesitated, still holding the sheet by the tips of his fingers. Then, as though he had taken a sudden resolve, he turned to Anstice abruptly.

"Look here, Anstice, this abominable thing reached me this morning. Now of course I don't need you to tell me that the proper place for it is the fire, and if it had not been for one circ.u.mstance connected with it, it would have been in the flames by now. But as things are"--he broke off suddenly and held the thin sheet out to the other man--"well, read it, and then tell me what you think is the best course to pursue."

With a premonition of evil for which he could not account, Anstice took the paper from Sir Richard and, turning to the window so that the pale autumn sunlight might fall upon the letter, he read the few lines scrawled in the middle of the sheet.

"Dr. Anstice is a murderer he killed a woman in India by shooting her because she was in the way when he wanted to escape."

That was all. There was no heading, no signature, not even the cynical a.s.surance of well-wishing which is the hall-mark, so to speak, of the typical anonymous letter; and as Anstice read the ill-written words his first sensation was of wonder as to who his secret enemy might be.

When he had finished he turned the sheet over in his hands to see if perchance the writer might have more to say; but the other side of the paper was blank; and he looked at Sir Richard with an expression of utter bewilderment.

"Well?" Sir Richard interrogated him with interest. "Pretty sort of doc.u.ment, eh? I suppose the writing conveys nothing to your mind?"

"Nothing at all." Holding the paper to the light, Anstice examined the ill-formed characters more closely. "It does not resemble any handwriting I know. But I suppose"--he smiled rather grimly--"the test of a successful anonymous correspondent is to disguise his writing efficiently."

"Yes." Sir Richard stretched out his hand for the paper and Anstice yielded it to him without regret. "Well, it is pretty evident that someone has--to put it vulgarly--got his knife into you. The question is, who can it be?"

"Well, it's a question I'm not clever enough to answer," returned Anstice, with a.s.sumed lightness. "All men have enemies, I suppose, and I won't swear I've never made any in my life. But I can't at the moment recall one who would stoop to fight with such dirty weapons as these."

"Dirty--that's just the word for it," said Sir Richard disgustedly. "But you know, Anstice, this sort of thing can't be allowed to go on. For your own sake, and for the sake of others"--he paused, then repeated himself deliberately--"for the sake of others it must be stopped--at once."

"I quite agree with you that it must be stopped," said Anstice slowly, "though I hardly see how the matter affects anyone except myself. Of course"--he looked Sir Richard squarely in the face as he spoke--"it is no use denying there is a certain amount of truth in this accusation against me. I wonder if you have the patience to listen to a story--the story of a great mistake made, unfortunately, by me some years ago."

For a moment Sir Richard seemed about to speak; yet no word crossed his lips. Then he said, with a very kindly inflection in his voice:

"Don't trouble to tell me the story, Anstice. I think I know it already."

"You do?" Anstice stared at him. "But who told it to you? Was it--Cheniston?"

"No, no." Sir Richard spoke hurriedly. "Cheniston never mentioned the affair to me. As a matter of fact I heard it, at the time, from his uncle, a contemporary of mine; but I confess I did not, at first, a.s.sociate you with the man who was brave enough--and unfortunate enough--to carry out that poor girl's wish----"

"On my honour, sir, I could not have done anything else." Anstice's voice was full of pain, and Sir Richard put his hand kindly on the younger man's shoulder.

"Of course you couldn't--no one but a fool could imagine that for a moment! But as I say, at first I did not connect your name with that of the hero of the story. It was only on seeing you and Cheniston together on one or two occasions that I guessed you might, after all, be the man."