She was wrapped up in shawls, and a long cloak covered her from head to foot.  Too upset to speak, she motioned with her hand to Adrien to open the door; and, laying a ten-pound note on the table, he said a few words of thanks to Lucy, then led the unhappy countess to the carriage.

No sooner had the horse started than her calmness gave way.  She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

“Adrien,” she sobbed, “I am ruined.”

“No,” said Leroy reassuringly, “you are safe, now.  This man is promised ten pounds if he reaches Hampton in half an hour.  My motor is waiting there.  I myself will drive you to Waterloo Station; there you can get a taxi, without attracting any attention, and you will reach home before ten.  Your husband will think you stayed to dine with Lady Rose.”

“But you—­you!” she wailed, “Will you promise——­”

“I,” he said, with a laugh of scorn at her doubt of him.  “This day of my life is yours; none will ever hear from me how it was spent, and you know it.”

“You swear?”

“I give you my word,” he said simply.  “I can give no stronger oath than that.”

Lady Merivale sank back with a sigh of relief.

Alas!  Leroy did not pause to reflect that, let happen what might, there was one day of his life he could not account for—­one whole day of which he had sworn to keep silent.

Faster and faster went the great car, at a pace that would have shocked chauffeur and policeman alike, but Leroy was reckless; a woman’s honour and his own were in imminent peril.  Death were sweeter than his failure to save it.

It was not much after nine when the car rolled into Waterloo Station, and Leroy assisted his trembling companion to alight.  Wrapped up in Lucy’s big coat, she stood quietly by while Leroy left his car in the care of an outside porter, then led her apparently towards the booking office.  Passing through this, they manoeuvred to reach the outside, where a taxi was hailed, and the address given.

Thankful at their escape, Leroy stood bareheaded till it disappeared in the throng of vehicles; then he returned to his own motor, as he thought, unseen and unnoticed.

Alas for his vain hopes!  Miss Penelope and Constance, after a long day’s shopping, had come to Waterloo on their way back to Barminster.  The sharp eyes of Lady Constance, quickened by love, recognised the figure of Adrien from afar; and, making some excuse to Miss Penelope, she followed and watched the departure.

She did not recognise the lady, it is true; but she saw sufficient to realise that her worst fears were fulfilled.  Adrien had neglected her letter for the sake of another woman.

Jasper waited patiently until the sound of the carriage wheels had died away into the distance, then he came out of his hiding-place, his face pale, his eyes shining.

“Lucy Ashford,” he said, sinking into a chair, and holding up one finger in solemn warning, “you may be asked some day to give an account of what has taken place to-night.  Remember this; you know nothing, you recognised no one—­till I give you leave.  Disobey me, and the story of your Canterbury trip becomes the property of the whole world.  I’ll proclaim it through every newspaper in the world.”