“I returned by last mail, and am at the above address.  I shall be at home tomorrow afternoon at five.  Of course I am seeing nobody, so we shall be quite undisturbed.  Be punctual, if possible.”

The “above address” was the big house that had belonged to the late Mr Ewing.  “Tomorrow afternoon” was but an hour off.

At five precisely Captain Carey shed his ulster in the palatial vestibule, and at the heels of a soft-footed man-servant, marched through the warm hall and up the shallow, muffled stairs to the familiar drawing-room—­a long room, the lower end of which was in shadow, and the upper illuminated like a shrine, with rosy lamps projecting from a forest of chimney ornament, and a great bright red fire twinkling upon tiles and brass.  The big palms were in their big pots, spreading and bowing over settees and cosy corners; every bowl and vase overflowed with the choicest flowers, although it was wintry June.  And the tea-table was ready; the old seductive chairs and tables were grouped upon the Persian hearthrug in the old way, with the sheltering screen half round them.  Indications of the desire of the mistress of the house to give him special welcome were too marked and many to be ignored.

He was left here to meditate in solitude for a few minutes, and he did all the meditating that was possible in the time.  His heart thumped rather faster than was necessary, but his strong face was a picture of composed determination.  Indeed, it was not easy to recognise the young Guthrie Carey of old Redford days in this stern, tough, substantial man, steady as a rock amid the winds and waves of incalculable fate.  Just now he had the look of a military commander braced for a pitched battle.  And the V.C. has been won for many a less courageous enterprise than that on which he was now engaged.

Leaning his broad shoulders on the ledge of the mantelpiece, and roasting his stout calves at the glorious fire, he watched the distant doorway with narrowed but keenly-glinting eyes.  When he saw the dim curtain lift to let in the light from the landing and a slim woman’s figure, he straightened himself, and set his teeth hard.  It had to be faced and fought, he felt, and the sooner it was over the better for them both.

She came fluttering up to him, with both hands held out.  How white they were against the crape!  And how wonderfully her complexion and her hair were set off by the black robe and the fine lawn bands at throat and wrists!  He loathed the mockery of the widow’s weeds, but thought he had never seen her look so lovely.

“Oh, Guthrie!  Oh, what years it seems!  Were you wondering what had become of me?  But I couldn’t—­somehow I didn’t feel that I could—­ before—­”

She cast herself into his arms in the most natural way in the world.  He laid one of them round her waist lightly, and kissed her brow; then, when she lifted it for the purpose, her mouth—­the sweetest woman’s mouth that ever made a pair of soft eyes omnipotent.  After some seconds of silence, she looked at him questioningly, all a-quiver with nervous excitement.  Her delicate cheek was pink like a La France rose.