The only outstanding thing which happened, and it was indeed a small thing compared to the other two, was the departure of James Tapster.  Blanche felt sorry for him—­genuinely sorry.  But she philosophically told herself that no amount of money, even had Bill Donnington never existed, could have made Bubbles even tolerably happy tied to such a man.

After Mr. Tapster had gone they all breathed the more freely.  Yet Blanche somehow did not feel comfortable.  What was wrong, for instance, with Lionel Varick?  He looked ill at ease, as well as ill physically.  Something seemed also to be weighing on Dr. Panton’s mind.  Even Sir Lyon Dilsford was unlike his pleasant easy self.  But Blanche thought she knew what ailed him.

Her only sheet anchor of comfort during that long, dull afternoon and evening was the thought that Bubbles’ life was set on the right lines at last ... and that Mark Gifford had not changed.

CHAPTER XX

     “HONBLE.  BLANCHE FARROW—­Wyndfell Hall—­Darnaston—­Suffolk—­Very
     private—­Meet me outside Darnaston Church at twelve o’clock,
     midday, to-morrow, Wednesday—­MARK GIFFORD.”

Blanche sat up in bed and stared down at the telegraph form.  What on earth did this mean?  But for the fact that she knew it to be out of the question, she would have suspected a foolish and vulgar practical joke.

She noted that the telegram had been sent off at 9.30 the night before (just after Mark must have received her letter).  She also saw that it had been inscribed for morning delivery.  That was like Mark Gifford.  He was nothing if not careful and precise with regard to everything of a business kind.

Then she began asking herself the sort of rather futile questions people do ask themselves, when puzzled, and made uneasy by what seems an inexplicable occurrence.  How would Mark get to Darnaston by twelve o’clock to-day?  Surely he could only do so by starting before it was light, and motoring the whole way from London?

She gazed at the words “very private.”  What did they portend?  Quickly she examined her conscience.  No, she had done nothing—­nothing which could have brought her into contact, even slightly, with the law.  Of course, she was well aware that Mark had never forgotten, even over all these years, the dreadful scrape into which she had got herself by going to those gambling parties in the pleasant, quiet, Jermyn Street flat where she and Varick had first become acquainted.  But that had been a sharp lesson, and one by which she had profited.

She next took a rapid mental survey of her family, all so much more respectable and prosperous than herself.  The only person among them capable of getting into any real scrape was poor little Bubbles.

Bubbles was now practically well again.  She had written out the announcement which was to appear in the Times and the Morning Post, and had insisted on its being sent off.