“Yes, father, I heard her,” he answered.  “But you see Stella is my wife.”

“Your—­” Mr. Hazlewood’s lips refused to speak the word.  He fell back again in his chair and dropped his face in his hands.  “Oh, no!”

“It’s true,” said Dick.  “I have rooms in London, you know.  I went to London last week.  Stella came up on Monday.  It was my doing, my wish.  Stella is my wife.”

Mr. Hazlewood groaned aloud.

“But she has tricked you, Richard,” and Stella agreed.

“Yes, I tricked you, Dick.  I did,” she said miserably, and she drew herself from his arm.  But he caught her hand.

“No, you didn’t.”  He led her over to his father.  “That’s where you both make your mistake.  Stella tried to tell me something on the very night when we walked back from this house to her cottage and I asked her to marry me.  She has tried again often during the last weeks.  I knew very well what it was—­before you turned against her, before I married her.  She didn’t trick me.”

Mr. Hazlewood turned in despair to Henry Thresk.

“What do you say?” he asked.

“That I am very glad you asked me here to give my advice on your collection,” Thresk answered.  “I was inclined yesterday to take a different view of your invitation.  But I did what perhaps I may suggest that you should do:  I accepted the situation.”

He went across to Stella and took her hands.

“Oh, thank you,” she cried, “thank you.”

“And now”—­Thresk turned to Dick—­“if I might look at a Bradshaw I could find out the next train to London.”

“Certainly,” said Dick, and he went over to the writing-table.  Stella and Henry Thresk were left alone for a moment.

“We shall see you again,” she said.  “Please!”

Thresk laughed.

“No doubt.  I am not going out into the night.  You know my address.  If you don’t ask Mr. Hazlewood.  It’s in King’s Bench Walk, isn’t it?” And he took the time-table from Dick Hazlewood’s hand.

THE END