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 and conscientiously on the gravel. Both voices ceased. He presented himself at the lamp-lit oblong of the window.

Within that lamplight glowed on the last remnants of a meal—dinner, by the glasses and the fruit. Also on the lady in the cap, and on a girl—the one, doubtless, who had evolved the lunatic idea. Both faces were turned towards him. Both women rose: there was nothing for it but advance. He murmured something about intrusion—“awfully sorry, the walks wind so,” and turned to go.

But the girl spoke: “Oh, wait a moment. Is this Mr Selwyn, mother?”

“My daughter, Miss Sheepmarsh—Mr Selwyn,” said the mother reluctantly.

“We were just talking about you,” said the girl, “and wondering whether you were ill or anything, or whether your servant hasn’t turned up, or something.”

“Miss Sheepmarsh.” He was still speechless. This the little adventuress, the tobacconist’s assistant? This girl with the glorious hair severely braided, the round face, the proud chin, the most honest eyes in the world? She might be sister to the adventuress—cousin, perhaps? But the room, too—shining