"I have not the slightest idea. I wish that I did know," I declared truthfully. "There is no man whom I am more anxious to see."

"You would, of course, inform the police?" she asked.

"I am afraid not," I answered.

Again she was angry. This time scarcely without reason.

"Your sympathies, in short, are with the murderer rather than with his victim--the man who was shot without warning in the back? It accords, I presume, with your idea of fair play?"

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "the subject is unpleasant and futile. Let us return to the inn."

She turned abruptly around. She made a little motion as of dismissal, but I remained by her side.

"By-the-bye," I said, "we were to exchange confidences. You are here, of course, to visit the convent? Why?"

She smiled enigmatically.

"I am not sure, my very simple conspirator," she said, "whether I will imitate your frankness. You see, you have blundered into a somewhat more important matter than you have any idea of. But I will tell you this, if you like. You may call that place a prison, or any hard names you please--yet it is destined to be Isobel's home. Not only that, but it is her only chance. I am putting you on your guard, you see, but I do not think that it matters. You are fighting against hopeless odds, and if by any chance you should succeed, your success would be the most terrible thing which could happen to Isobel."

I walked by her side for a moment in silence. There was in her words and tone some underlying note of fear, some suggestion of hidden danger, which brought back to my mind at once the farewell speech of Madame Richard. There was something ominous, too, in her presence here.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, as lightly as possible, "you have told me a great deal, and less than nothing at all. Yet I gather that you know more about the child and her history than you have led me to suppose."

"Yes," she admitted, "that is perhaps true."

"Why not let me share your knowledge?" I suggested boldly.

"You carry candour," she remarked, smiling, "to absurdity. We are on opposite sides. Ah, how delicious this is!"

We were regaining the centre of the little town by a footpath which for some distance had followed the river, and now, turning almost at right angles, skirted a cherry orchard in late blossom. The perfume of the pink and white buds, swaying slightly in the breeze, came to us both--a waft of delicate and poignant freshness. Lady Delahaye stood still, and half closed her eyes.

"How perfectly delicious," she murmured. "Arn--Mr. Greatson, do get me just the tiniest piece. I can't quite reach."

I broke off a small branch, and she thrust it into the bosom of her dress. The orchard was gay with bees and a few early b.u.t.terflies, blue and white and orange coloured. In the porch of a red-tiled cottage a few yards away a girl was singing. Suddenly I stopped and pointed.

"Look!"

An avenue with a gate at the end led through the orchard, and under the drooping boughs we caught a glimpse of the convent away on the hillside.

Greyer and more stern than ever it seemed through the delicate framework of soft green foliage and blossoms.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you are yourself a young woman. Could you bear to think of banishing from your life for ever all the colour and the sweet places, all the joy of living? Would you be content to build for yourself a tomb, to commit yourself to a living death?"

She answered me instantly, almost impulsively.

"There is all the difference in the world," she declared. "I am a woman; although I am not old, I know what life is. I know what it would be to give it up. But the child--she knows nothing. She is too young to know what lies before her. As yet her eyes are not opened. Very soon she would be content there."

I shook my head. I did not agree with Lady Delahaye.

"Indeed no!" I protested. "You reckon nothing for disposition. In her heart the song of life is already formed, the joy of it is already stirring in her blood. The convent would be slow torture to her. She shall not go there!"

Lady Delahaye smiled--mirthlessly, yet as one who has some hidden knowledge which she may not share.

"You think yourself her friend," she said. "In reality you are her enemy. If not the convent, then worse may befall her."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"As to that," I said, "we shall see!"

We resumed our walk. Again we were nearing the inn. Lady Delahaye looked at me every now and then curiously. My feeling towards her had grown more and more belligerent.

"You puzzle me, Arnold," she said softly. "After all, Isobel is but a child. What cunning tune can she have played upon your heartstrings that you should espouse her cause with so much fervour? If she were a few years older one could perhaps understand."

I disregarded her innuendo.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "if you were as much her friend as I believe that I am, you would not hesitate to tell me all that you know. I have no other wish than to see her safe, and amongst her friends, but I will give her up to no one whom I believe to be her enemy."

"Arnold," she answered gravely, "I can only repeat what I have told you before. You are interfering in greater concerns than you know of. Even if I would, I dare not give you any information. The fate of this child, insignificant in herself though she is, is bound up with very important issues."

Our eyes met for a moment. The expression in hers puzzled me--puzzled me to such an extent that I made her no answer. Slowly she extended her hand.

"At least," she said, "let us part friends--unless you choose to be gallant and wait here for me until to-morrow. It is a dreary journey home alone."

I took her hand readily enough.

"Friends, by all means," I answered, "but I must get back to Paris to-night. A messenger from Madame Richard is already waiting for me in London."

She withdrew her hand quickly, and turned away.

"It must be as you will, of course," she said coldly. "I do not wish to detain you."

Nevertheless, her farewell look haunted me as I sped across the great fertile plain on my way to Paris.

CHAPTER XI

Mabane laid down his brush, Arthur sprang from his seat upon the table and greeted me with a shout. Isobel said nothing, but her dark blue eyes were fastened upon my face as though seeking to read her fate there.

They had evidently been waiting for my coming. I remember thinking it strange, even then, that these other two men should apparently share to the fullest degree my own interest in the child's fate.

"I have failed," I announced shortly.

I took Isobel's hand. It was cold as ice, and I could feel that she was trembling violently.

"Madame Richard would tell me nothing, Isobel," I said. "I believe that she knows all about you, and I believe that Lady Delahaye does too. But they will tell me nothing."

"And?" she demanded, with quivering lips. "And?"