On the evening of the third day Dion told Rosamund that he must go to London on the following morning.

“I’ve got something I must do and I want to tell you about it,” he said.  “You remember Mrs. Clarke?”

“Yes,” said Rosamund.

“It must be more than two years since I’ve seen her.  She lives a great deal in Constantinople, you know.  But she sometimes comes to London in the winter.  It’s abominably cold in Constantinople in winter.  There are perpetual winds from the Black Sea.”

“Yes, I know there are.  Esme Darlington has told me about them.”

“Mrs. Clarke’s in London now.”

“Did you see her when you passed through?”

“No, but I want to see her to-morrow.  Rose, I’m going to tell you something which nobody else must know.  I was asked to keep it entirely to myself, but I refused.  I was resolved to tell you, because I don’t believe in secrets between husband and wife—­about their doings, I mean.” (Just then he had happened to think of Mrs. Clarke’s farewell telegram to him when he had sailed for South Africa.)

“I know how frank and sincere you always are, Dion,” she said gently.

“I try to be.  You remember that party at Mrs. Chetwinde’s where you sang?  You met Mrs. Clarke that night.”

“Of course I remember.  We had quite an interesting talk.”

“She’s clever.  Lord Brayfield was there, too, that night, a fair man.

“I saw him.  He wasn’t introduced to me.”

“Brayfield was shot in the war.  Did you know it?”

“No.  I thought I had read everything.  But I didn’t happen to see it.”

“And I didn’t mention it when I wrote.  I thought I’d tell you if I came home.  Brayfield, poor fellow, didn’t die immediately.  He suffered a great deal, but he was able to write two or three letters—­last messages—­home.  One of these messages was written to Mrs. Clarke.  He gave it to me and made me promise to convey it to her personally, not to put it in the post.”

“Was Lord Brayfield in the C.I.V.?” asked Rosamund.

“Oh no.  He was a captain in the 5th Lancers.  We were brigaded with them for a bit and under fire at the same time.  Brayfield happened to see me.  He knew I was an acquaintance of Mrs. Clarke’s, and when he was shot he asked that I should be allowed to come to him.  Permission was given.  I went, and he asked me if I’d give Mrs. Clarke a letter from him when I got home.  It seems none of his brother officers happened to know her.  He might have given the letter to one of them.  It would have been more natural.  But”—­Dion hesitated—­“well, he wanted to say a word or two to some one who knew her, I suppose.”

Rosamund quite understood there were things Dion did not care to tell even to her.  She did not want to hear them.  She was not at all a curious woman.

“I’m glad you are able to take the letter,” she said.

And then she began to talk about something else.  Mr. Thrush’s prospects with the Dean, which were even yet not quite decided.