A thought struck him.  As far as he could perceive, there was an empty niche.

“And Lord Parham?”

A smile of mischief broadened on Kitty’s lips.

“That’ll come,” she said—­and checked herself.  Darrell bowed his face on his hands and laughed, unseen.  To what sacrificial rite was the unconscious victim hurrying—­at that very moment—­in the express train which was to land him at Haggart Station that afternoon?

“Well!” said Kitty, impatiently—­“what do you think?  Can you help me?”

Darrell looked up.

“You know, Lady Kitty, that book can’t be published like that.  Nobody would risk it.”

“Well, I suppose they’ll tell me what to cut out.”

“Yes,” said Darrell, slowly, caught by many reflections—­“no doubt some clever fellow will know how near the wind it’s possible to sail.  But, anyway, trim it as you like, the book will make a scandal.”

“Will it?” Kitty’s eyes flashed.  She sat up radiant, her breath quick and defiant.

“I don’t see,” he resumed, “how you can publish it without consulting Ashe.”

Kitty gave a cry of protest.

“No, no, no!  Of course he’d disapprove.  But then—­he soon forgives a thing, if he thinks it clever.  And it is clever, isn’t it?—­some of it.  He’d laugh—­and then it would be all right. He’d never pay out his enemies, but he couldn’t help enjoying it if some one else did—­could he?” She pleaded like a child.

“‘No need to forgive them,’” murmured Darrell, as he rolled over on his back and put his hat over his eyes—­“for you would have ’shot them all.’”

Under the shelter of his hat he tried to think himself clear.  What really were her motives?  Partly, no doubt, a childish love of excitement—­partly revenge?  The animus against the Parhams was clear in every page.  Cliffe, too, came badly out of it—­a fantastic Byronic mixture of libertine and cad.  Lady Kitty had better beware!  As far as he knew, Cliffe had never yet been struck, with impunity to the striker.

If these precious sheets ever appeared, Ashe’s position would certainly be shaken.  Poor wretch!—­endeavoring to pursue a serious existence, yoked to such an impish sprite as this!  His own fault, after all.  That first night, at Madame d’Estrees’, was not her madness written in her eyes?

“Now tell me, Lady Kitty”—­he roused himself to look at her with some attention—­“what do you want me to do?”

“To find me a publisher, and”—­she stooped towards him with a laughing shyness—­“to get me some money.”

“Money!”

“I’ve been so awfully extravagant lately,” said Kitty, frankly.  “Something really will have to be done.  And the book’s worth some money, isn’t it?”

“A good deal,” said Darrell.  Then he added, with emphasis—­“I really can’t be responsible for it in any way, Lady Kitty.”

“Of course not.  I will never, never say I told you!  But, you see, I’m not literary—­I don’t know in the least how to set about it.  If you would just put me in communication?”