“Hallo, Gabrielle!” he cried cheerily, taking her hand, “what brings you over this morning, especially when we were told last night that you were so very ill?”

“The illness has passed,” exclaimed young Gellatly, shaking his friend’s hand.  “And we’re now in search of a lost bracelet—­one of Lady Heyburn’s.”

“Why, my mother was just going to wire!  One of the maids found it in the boudoir this morning, but we didn’t know to whom it belonged.  Come inside.  There are a lot of people staying over from last night.”  Then, turning to Gabrielle, he added, “By Jove! what dust there must be on the road!  You’re absolutely covered.”

“Well,” she laughed lightly, “it won’t hurt me, I suppose.  I’m not afraid of it.”

Stokes took charge of the car and shut off the petrol, while the three went inside, passing into a long, cool cloister, down which was arranged the splendid collection of antiques discovered or acquired by Malcolm Murie, the well-known antiquary, who had spent many years in Italy, and died in 1794.  In cases ranged down each side of the long cloister, with its antique carved chairs, armour, and statuary, were rare Etruscan and Roman terra-cottas, one containing relics from the tomb of a warrior, which included a sword-hilt adorned with gold and a portion of a golden crown formed of lilies in relievo of pure gold laid upon a mould of bronze; another case was full of bronze ornaments unearthed near Albano, and still another contained rare Abyssinian curios.  The collection was renowned among antiquaries, and was often visited by Sir Henry, who would be brought there in the car by Gabrielle, and spend hours alone fingering the objects in the various cases.

Sir George Murie and Sir Henry Heyburn were close friends; therefore it was but natural that Walter, the heir to the Connachan estate, and Gabrielle should often be thrown into each other’s company, or perhaps that the young man—­who for the past twelve months had been absent on a tour round the world—­should have loved her ever since the days when she wore short skirts and her hair down her back.  He had been sorely puzzled why she had not at the last moment come to the ball.  She had promised that she would be with them, and yet she had made the rather lame excuse of a headache.

Truth to tell, Walter Murie had during the past week been greatly puzzled at her demeanour of indifference.  Seven days ago he had arrived in London from New York, but found no letter from her awaiting him at the club, as he had expected.  The last he had received in Detroit a month before, and it was strangely cold, and quite unusual.  Two days ago he had arrived home, and in secret she had met him down at the end of the glen at Glencardine.  At her wish, their first meeting had been clandestine.  Why?

Both their families knew of their mutual affection.  Therefore, why should she now make a secret of their meeting after twelve months’ separation?  He was puzzled at her note, and he was further puzzled at her attitude towards him.  She was cold and unresponsive.  When he held her in his arms and kissed her soft lips, she only once returned his passionate caress, and then as though it were a duty forced upon her.  She had, however, promised to come to the ball.  That promise she had deliberately broken.