Yet that too she must have known before.  Why then should the pretence now so greatly trouble her?  Chayne watched the two men pacing in the garden.  Certainly he had never seen them in so intimate a comradeship.  Garratt Skinner had passed his arm through Walter Hine’s and held him so, plying him with stories, bending down his keen furrowed aquiline face toward him as though he had no thought in the world but to make him his friend and bind him with affection; and Walter Hine looked up and listened and laughed, a vain, weak wisp of a creature, flattered to the skies and defenceless as a rabbit.

“Why the pretence?” said Sylvia.  “Why the linked arms?  The pretence has grown during these last days.  What new thing is intended?” Her eyes were on the garden, and as she looked it seemed that her terror grew.  “My father went away a week ago.  Since he has returned the pretence has increased.  I am afraid!  I am afraid!”

Garratt Skinner turned in his walk and led Walter Hine back toward the house.  Sylvia shrank from his approach as from something devilish.  When he turned again, she drew her breath like one escaped from sudden peril.

“Sylvia!  Of what are you afraid?”

“I don’t know!” she cried.  “That’s just the trouble.  I don’t know!” She clenched her hands together at her breast.  Chayne caught them in his and was aware that in one shut palm she held something which she concealed.  Her clasp tightened upon it as his hands touched hers.  Sylvia had more reason for her fears than she had disclosed.  Barstow came no more.  There were no more cards, no more bets; and this change taken together with Garratt Skinner’s increased friendship added to her apprehensions.  She dreaded some new plot more sinister, more terrible than that one of which she was aware.

“If only I knew,” she cried.  “Oh, if only I knew!”

Archie Parminter had paid one visit to the house, had stayed for one night; and he and Garratt Skinner and Walter Hine had sat up till morning, talking together in the library.  Sylvia waking up from a fitful sleep, had heard their voices again and again through the dark hours; and when the dawn was gray, she had heard them coming up to bed as on the first night of her return; and as on that night there was one who stumbled heavily.  It was since that night that terror had distracted her.

“I have no longer any power,” she said.  “Something has happened to destroy my power.  I have no longer any influence.  Something was done upon that night,” and she shivered as though she guessed; and she looked at her clenched hand as though the clue lay hidden in its palm.  There lay her great trouble.  She had lost her influence over Walter Hine.  She had knowledge of the under side of life—­yes, but her father had a greater knowledge still.  He had used his greater knowledge.  Craftily and with a most ingenious subtlety he had destroyed her power, he had blunted her weapons.  Hine was attracted by Sylvia, fascinated by her charm, her looks, and the gentle simplicity of her manner.  Very well.  On the other side Garratt Skinner had held out a lure of greater attractions, greater fascination; and Sylvia was powerless.