“And I was afraid of the dragon,” she said.  “And you held my hand.  I remember it so well.  And afterwards I went to sleep, and slept all night long with my head on your shoulder.”

“You were but a child,” he said softly.

“But it seems like yesterday,” she answered.

And then it was that the door opened very quietly, and Trevor Mordaunt came in upon them, sitting together in the gloom.

CHAPTER XI

THE EXPLANATION

There was nothing hurried in his entrance, nothing startling; but yet a sudden silence fell.

Out of it almost immediately came Bertrand’s voice.  “Ah, Mr. Mordaunt, you return to find a visitor.  Miss—­Wyndham is here.  She came to seek you, but she found only—­” he spread out his hands characteristically—­“the organ-grinder.”

He had risen with the words; so also had Chris. She went forward, but without her usual impetuosity.

“I have found an old friend, Trevor,” she said, speaking quickly, as if embarrassed.  “I have known Mr.—­Mr.—­what did you say your name was?” turning towards him again.

He shrugged his shoulders.  “I am called Bertrand, mademoiselle.”

She smiled in her quick way.  “I have known—­Bertrand—­for years.  At least, we used to know each other years ago, and—­and we knew each other again the moment we met.  It was a great surprise to me—­to us both.”

“And a great pleasure,” said Bertrand, with a bow.

“An immense pleasure,” said Chris, with enthusiasm.

“But, my dear girl,” Mordaunt said, his quiet voice falling almost coldly upon their explanations, “what on earth made you come here of all places?”

“Oh,” said Chris, leaping to this new point almost with relief, “it was raining, and thundering too.  I hadn’t an umbrella and I knew I should be drenched, and this was the nearest shelter I could think of, so I just came.  It seemed the most sensible thing to do.  I thought perhaps you would be pleased to see me.  I even fancied you might give me tea.”

There was a faint note of wistfulness in her voice though she was smiling.  She stood before him with something of the air of a culprit.

“Of course Aunt Philippa wouldn’t approve,” she said.  “I know that.  But—­you always say you are not like Aunt Philippa, Trevor.”

He took her hand very gently but with evident purpose into his own.

“I will give you tea with pleasure,” he said, “but not here.  Holmes shall call a taxi.  I am afraid you must say good-bye to your friend now, unless—­” he paused momentarily—­“unless, Bertrand, you care to accompany us.”

“Oh do, Bertie!” she said eagerly.  “I want you.  Please come!”

But Bertrand’s refusal was instant and final.

“It is impossible,” he declared.  “I thank you a thousand times, but I have yet many letters to write, and the post will not wait.”