He held her up with a sharp, “Hullo, hullo!  Why don’t you look where you are going?”

And Olga, crimson and breathless, extricated herself with more of speed than dignity.  “I’m so sorry, Colonel Campion.  The sun is so blazing, I didn’t see you.  I’ve come to fetch Violet.  She has promised to spend a few days with me while Dad is away.”

Colonel Campion’s thin, bronzed face was grim, but he raised no objection to the projected visit.  He turned at once to Max.

“Hullo, Wyndham!  You, is it?  Come in and have a drink.”

And Olga, feeling herself dismissed, hastened away to find her friend.  She stood somewhat in awe of Colonel Campion, despite the fact that his young half-sister defied him continually with impunity.  There was something fateful and forbidding about him.  He made her think of a man labouring perpetually under a burden which he resented, but was compelled to bear.  She wondered what he and Max Wyndham could have in common as she paused at the sea-window on the stairs to cool her cheeks.  He had certainly been pleased in his gloomy fashion to see Max, though he had not troubled to give her a welcome.

She found that Violet had not proceeded much further with her packing than when she had left her more than an hour before.  She was in fact lying at careless ease half-dressed upon the bed, deeply immersed in a book with a lurid paper cover.  She scarcely raised her eyes at Olga’s entrance.

“Back already.  My dear, you are like quicksilver.  Well have I named you Allegro!  It suits you to perfection.  Sit down—­anywhere!  I really can’t attend to you for a few minutes.  This is the beastliest thing I’ve ever read.  You shall have it when I’ve finished.  It’s all about the Turkish massacres in Armenia—­revolting—­absolutely revolting—­” Her voice trailed off into a semi-conscious murmur and ceased.  The beautiful eyes, dilated with horror, devoured the open page.

Olga contemplated her for a moment, then went to the bedside.  “Violet, do put down that hateful book!  How can you read such disgusting things?  Violet!” as her remonstrance elicited no response, “do get up and let us pack your things!  Dr. Wyndham is downstairs.”

“What?” Violet looked at her this time, but with a mazed expression as of one half-asleep.  “Who?  The great Objectionable himself?  How did you inveigle him here?  By nothing short of witchcraft, I will swear.  Those pale eyes of yours are rather witch-like, do you know?  Did you fly over on a broomstick to fetch him?  And why?”

Olga possessed herself of the book, and shut it with decision.  “I came upon him at Redlands, and as he has got the car with him, we may as well go back in it.  He said he was coming here in any case.”

“Really, dear?  I wonder why.”  Violet made a futile effort to recapture her book.  “You might let me have it.  I must know what became of those unlucky girls when the convent was taken.  They mutilated most of the nuns with their scimitars.  But the pupils—­Allegro, let me have it, dear!  I shan’t sleep a wink to-night till I know the worst.”