It was rather a wild proposal, and he was not surprised when he saw her shake her head.  “I can’t do that,” she said.  “But oh, Mark, I wish I could!  Bubbles is in bed.  There was an accident—­it’s too long to tell you about it now.  But, of course, I’ll manage to get her away to-day.”

And then the oppressive horror of it all suddenly came back to her.  “When did you say they were going to arrest Lionel?”

She uttered the words slowly, and with difficulty.

“They’re going to arrest him to-morrow, Friday, in the early afternoon,” he said in a low voice.  “By God’s mercy,” he spoke simply, reverently, “I got your letter in time, Blanche.”

He looked at her anxiously.  “I’m afraid even now you will have some difficult hours to live through,” and, as he saw her face change, “I trust absolutely to your discretion,” he said hesitatingly.

“Of course,” she gave the assurance hurriedly.  “Of course you can do that, Mark.”

Without looking at her, he went on: 

“As a matter of fact, the house has been watched for some days.  If he tries to get away he will destroy the—­the sporting chance I mentioned just now.”

“I must be going back,” she said, getting up.  “Several of the party were, in any case, leaving this afternoon, and I must manage to get everybody else away as well.”

Her mind was in a whirl of conflicting feelings and emotions.  And then, all at once, she was moved, taken away from the dreadful problem of the moment, by what she saw in Mark Gifford’s face.  It was filled with a kind of sober gladness.  “Mark,” she exclaimed, “what a selfish brute I’ve always been to you—­never giving—­always taking!  I’ll try to be different now.”

She held out her hand; he took it and held it closely.  “When shall I see you again?” he asked.  “May I come and meet you and Bubbles at Liverpool Street to-morrow?”

“Yes—­do.  That will be a great comfort!” And then, acting as she very seldom did, on impulse, Blanche rather shamefacedly held up her face to his....

CHAPTER XXII

Again and again, as Blanche Farrow walked slowly back to Wyndfell Hall, she went over the meagre details of the strange story she had just been told.  Again and again she tried to fill in the bare outlines of the tale.

Lionel Varick a murderer?  Her mind, her heart, refused to accept the possibility.

Suddenly there came back to her a recollection of the curious, now many years old, circumstances which had attended her knowledge of Varick’s first marriage.

Someone, she could not now remember who, had taken her to one of the cheap foreign restaurants in Soho, which were not then so much frequented by English people as they are now.  She had been surprised, and rather amused, to see Lionel Varick at a neighbouring table, apparently entertaining a middle-aged, rather prim-looking lady, whom he had introduced to her, Blanche, rather unwillingly, as “my friend, Miss Weatherfield.”