"Do we meet and make it up?" she asked with assumed lightness of tone as the canoe passed through the scummy, winding mouth of the Cher and shot clear into the Isis.

"We meet."

"And make it up?" she repeated.

"I don't know."

"Do you care?"

"Sylvia!"

"What will you do?"

"If we don't?" The Seraph sat motionless for a moment, and then began paddling the boat alongside the barges. "I shall go abroad. I've never been to India. I want to go there. And then I shall go on to Japan, and from Japan to some of Stevenson's islands in the South Seas. I've seen everything else that I want to see."

"And then?"

He raised his eyebrows and shook his head uncertainly.

"Burial at sea, I hope."

"Seraph, if you talk like that we shall quarrel now."

"But it's true."

"There'd be nothing more in life?"

"Not if we quarrelled and never made it up."

"But if we _did_----"

"Ah, that'ud make all the difference in the world."

For a moment they looked into each other's eyes: then Sylvia's fell.

"I don't want to quarrel," she said. "I don't believe we shall, I don't see why we need. If we do, I'm prepared to make it up."

"I wonder if you will be when the time comes," he answered.

We were, with a single, noteworthy exception--a subdued party that night at dinner. Philip and Gladys had much to occupy their minds and little their tongues: Sylvia and the Seraph were silent and reflective: I, too, in my unobtrusive middle-aged fashion, had passed an eventful night and morning. The exception was Robin, who furnished conversational relief in the form of Stone Age pleasantries at the expense of his brother in particular, engaged couples in general, and the whole immemorial institution of wedlock. I have forgotten some of his more striking parallels, but I recollect that each fresh dish called forth a new simile.

"Pity oysters aren't in season, Toby," he remarked. "Marriage is like your first oyster, horrid to look at, clammy to touch, and only to be swallowed at a gulp." "Clear soup for me, please. When I'm offered thick, I always wonder what the cook's trying to hide. Thick soup is like marriage." "Why does dressed crab always remind me of marriage? I suppose because it's irresistible, indigestible, and if carelessly mixed, full of little pieces of shell." "Capercailzie is symbolical of married life: too much for one, not enough for two." "Matrimony is like a cigarette before port: it destroys the palate for the best things in life."

No one paid any attention to Robin as he rambled on to his own infinite contentment: he would probably still be rambling but for the arrival of an express letter directed to me in Arthur Roden's writing.

We were digesting dinner over a cigar in the hall, and after reading the letter I took Sylvia and the Seraph aside, and communicated its contents. By some chance it was included in a miscellaneous bundle of papers I packed up before leaving England, and I have it before me on my table as I write.

"Private and Confidential," it began--

"MY DEAR TOBY,"

"If this arrives in time, I shall be glad if you will send me a wire to say all is well with Sylvia and the others. We are a good deal alarmed by the latest move of the Militants. You will have seen that Rawnsley got up in the House the other day and moved to appropriate all Private Members' time till the end of the Session, in this way frustrating all idea of the Suffrage coming up in the form of a Private Member's Bill.

"The Militants have made their counterstroke without loss of time. Yesterday morning Jefferson's only child--a boy of seven--disappeared. We left J. out when we were running over likely victims at Brandon: he was away in the _Enchantress_ inspecting Rosyth at the time, and I suppose that was how we forgot him. We certainly ought not to have done so, as he has been one of the most outspoken of the anti-militants.

"The child went yesterday with his nurse to Hyde Park. The woman--like all her damnable kind--paid no attention to her duty, and allowed some young guardsman to sit and talk to her.

In five minutes' time--she says it was only five minutes--the child had disappeared. No trace of him has been found.

Jefferson, of course, is in a great state of worry, but agrees with Rawnsley that no word of the story must be allowed to reach the Press, and no effort spared to convince the electorate of the utter impossibility of considering the claims at present put forward by the Militants. I am arranging a series of meetings in the Midlands and Home Counties as soon as the House rises.

"And that reminds me. Rawnsley received a second letter immediately after the abduction of J.'s boy, telling him his action in respect of Private Members' time had been noted, and that he would be given till the end of the month [June] to foreshadow an autumn session. There may be an autumn session--that depends on the Committee Stage of the Poor Law Bill--but the Suffrage will not come up during its course, and Rawnsley is purposely withholding his announcement till the month has turned.

"For the next ten days, therefore, we may hope to be spared any fresh attack. After that they will begin again, and as my Midland campaign is being announced in the course of this week, it is more than probable that the blow may be aimed at me.

"Please shew this letter to Sylvia and the boys, and explain as much of the Rawnsley affair as may be necessary to make it clear to her. At present she has been told that Mavis is ill in London and may have to undergo an operation. Tell her to use the utmost care not to stir in public without some competent person to escort her. Scotland Yard is increasing its bodyguards, and everything must be done to assist them.

"You will, of course, see the necessity of keeping this letter private.

"Ever yours, "ARTHUR RODEN."

As I gave the letter to Sylvia and the Seraph to read, I will admit that my first feeling was one of unsubstantial relief that Joyce had been in Oxford when the abduction took place in London. I did not in any way condone the offence, I should not have condoned it even had I known that she was mainly responsible for the abduction. Independently of all moral considerations, I found myself being glad that she was out of town at the time of the outrage. The consolation was flimsy. I concede that. But it is interesting to me to look back now and review my mental standpoint at that moment. I had already got beyond the point of administering moral praise and blame: my descent to active participation in crime followed with incredible abruptness.

I felt the "Private and Confidential" was not binding against the Seraph, as he had been present when Rawnsley described the disappearance of Mavis. While he expounded her father's letter to Sylvia, I gave its main points to Philip and Robin. The comments of the family were characteristic of its various members. Philip shook a statesmanlike head and opined that this was getting very serious, you know. Robin inquired plaintively who'd want to abduct a little thing like him.

"I don't want any 'competent escort,'" Sylvia exclaimed with her determined small chin in the air.

"For less than twenty-four hours," I begged. "I'm responsible for your safety till then. After that you can fight the matter out with your father."

"But I can look after myself even for the next twenty-four hours."

I assumed my severest manner.

"Have you ever seen me angry?" I said.

"Do you think you could frighten me?" she asked with a demure smile.

"I'm quite sure I couldn't," I answered helplessly. "Seraph, can you do anything with her?"

"Nobody can do anything with her...."

"Seraph!"

"...against her will."

"That's better."

I struck at a propitious moment.

"When we leave here," I said to the Seraph, "you're to take her hand and not let go till you're back in the hotel again. I give her into your charge. Treat her...."