Without waiting for her permission he stepped out of the arbor and she heard his footsteps crunching up the gravel path.  Maggie waited his return in pulsing suspense.  Her situation had been developing beyond anything she had ever dreamed of; she was aquiver as to what might happen next.  So absorbed was she in her chaos of feeling and thoughts that she did not even hear the humble symphony of the hundreds of bees drawing their treasure from the golden hearts of the roses; and did not see, across the path a score of yards away, the tall figure of Joe Ellison among the rosebushes, pruning-shears in hand, with which he had been cutting out dead blossoms, gazing at her with that hungry, admiring, speculative look with which he had regarded the young women upon the beach.

Presently she heard Hunt’s footsteps coming down the path.  Then she detected a second pair.  Dick accompanying him, she thought.  And then Hunt appeared before her, and was saying in his big voice:  “Miss Cameron, permit me to present my friend, Mr. Brandon.”  And then he added in a lowered voice, grinning with the impish delight of an overgrown boy who is playing a trick:  “Thought I’d better go through the motions of introducing you people, so it would look as if you’d just met for the first time.”  And with that he was gone.

Maggie had risen galvanically.  For the moment she could only stare.  Then she got out his name.

“Larry!” she whispered.  “You here?”

“Yes.”

Astounded as she was, she had caught instantly the total lack of amazement on Larry’s part.

“You’re—­you’re not surprised to see me?”

“No,” he said evenly.  “I knew you were here.  And before that I knew you were coming.”

That was almost too much for Maggie.  Hunt had known and Larry had known; both were people belonging to her old life, both the last people she expected to meet in such circumstances.  She could only stare at him—­entirely taken aback by this meeting.

And indeed it was a strangely different meeting from the last time she had seen him, at the Grantham; strangely different from those earlier meetings down at the Duchess’s when both had been grubs as yet unmetamorphosized.  Now standing in the arbor they looked a pair of weekend guests, in keeping with the place.  For, as Maggie had noted, Larry in his well-cut flannels was as greatly transformed as Hunt.

It was Larry who ended the silence.  “Shall we sit down?”

She mechanically sank to the bench, still staring at him.

“What are you doing here?” she managed to breathe.

“I belong here.”

“Belong here?”

“I work here,” he explained.  “I’m called ‘Mr. Brandon,’ but Miss Sherwood knows exactly who I am and what I’ve been.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since that night when Barney and Old Jimmie took you away to begin your new career—­the same night that I ran away from those gunmen who thought I was a squealer, and from Casey and Gavegan.”