“I don’t think you need be afraid that Lionel will ever ask you to marry him again,” said Blanche firmly.  “And, Helen?  Let me give you a word of advice.  Never, never, tell anyone of what happened to you this morning.”

The girl blushed painfully.  “I know I ought not to have told you,” she whispered, “but I felt so wretched.”  She hesitated, and then added:  “Ever since it happened I have been remembering that first evening, when my dear father warned me to leave this house.  Oh, how I wish I had done what he told me to do!”

“I think you are wrong there,” said Blanche.  “I think a day will come, Helen, and in spite of anything that has happened, or that may happen, when you will be very glad that you stayed on at Wyndfell Hall.”

“Do you?” she said wistfully and then she went on, with a note of diffidence and shyness which touched the older woman:  “You and Bubbles have both been so kind to me—­would you rather that I stayed on with you?  I will if you like.”

“As a matter of fact, Bubbles and I are going away to-day, after all,” said Blanche, “so let me send one of the men down with your telegram.”

“I would rather take it myself—­really!” and a moment later she disappeared round the sharp turning which led on to the open road.

* * * * *

Blanche walked on, her eyes on the ground, until there fell on her ears the sound of quick footsteps.  She looked up, to see Varick’s tall figure hurrying towards her.

They met by the moat bridge, and as he came up to her he saw her pull forward the veil which, neatly arranged round the rim of her small felt hat, was not really meant to cover her face.

“Let’s walk down here for a moment,” he said abruptly.  “I want to ask you a question, Blanche.”

They stepped off the carriage road on to the grass, and, walking on a few paces, stood together at the exact spot from which Varick, on Christmas Eve, had looked at the house before him with such exultant eyes.

Three weeks ago Wyndfell Hall had appeared kindly and welcoming, as well as mysteriously beautiful, with its old diamond-paned windows all aglow.  Now, in the wintry daylight, the ancient dwelling house still looked mysteriously beautiful; but there was something cold, menacing, forlorn in its appearance.  The windows looked like blind eyes....

He turned on her suddenly, and held out the telegram she had received that morning.

“One of the servants picked this up on the breakfast table and brought it to me.  What the devil does it mean?  If Mark Gifford wanted to see you why couldn’t he come here?”

Blanche looked at him dumbly.  Had her life depended on her speaking she could not have spoken just then.

He went on:  “Have you seen Gifford?  Did he say anything about me?”

He uttered the words with a kind of breathless haste.  She had the painful feeling that he wanted to put her in the wrong, to quarrel with her.  Even as he spoke he was tearing the telegram into small pieces, and casting them down on to the neat, well-kept grass path.