After the distracted girl had thrown off her cloak, her maid unhooked her dress, whereupon Dorise dismissed her to bed.

“I want to read, so go to bed,” she said in a petulant voice which rather surprised the neat muslin-aproned maid.

“Very well, miss.  Good-night,” the latter replied meekly.

But as soon as the door was closed Dorise flung herself upon the chintz-covered couch and wept bitterly as though her heart would break.

She had met Louise Lambert—­it was Hugh who had introduced them.  George Sherrard had several times told her of the friendship between the pair, and one night at the Haymarket Theatre she had seen them together in a box.  On another occasion she had met them at Ciro’s, and they had been together at the Embassy, at Ranelagh, and yet again she had seen them lunching together one Sunday at the Metropole at Brighton.

All this had aroused suspicion and jealousy in her mind.  It was all very well for Hugh to disclaim anything further than pure friendship, but now that Gossip was casting her hydra-headed venom upon their affairs, it was surely time to act.

Hugh would be awaiting her at Farnham next afternoon.

She crossed to the window and looked at the bright stars.  In war time she used to see the long beams of searchlights playing to and fro.  But now all was peace in London, and the world-war half forgotten.

Within herself arose a great struggle.  Hugh was accused of a crime—­an accusation of which he could not clear himself.  He had been hunted across Europe by the police and had, up to the present, been successful in slipping through their fingers.

But why did he visit that notorious woman at that hour of the night?  What could have been the secret bond between them?

The woman had narrowly escaped death presumably on account of his murderous attack upon her, while he had cleverly evaded arrest, until, at the present moment, his whereabouts was known only to a dinner-table gossip, and he was staying in the same house as the girl, love for whom he had always so vehemently disclaimed.

Poor Dorise spent a sleepless night.  She lay awake thinking—­and yet thinking!

At breakfast her mother looked at her and, with satisfaction, saw that she had gained a point nearer her object.

Dorise went into Bond Street shopping at eleven o’clock, still undecided whether to face Hugh or not.  The shopping was a fiasco.  She bought only a bunch of flowers.

But in her walk she made a resolve not to make further excuse.  She would not ask her mother for the car, and Hugh, by waiting alone, should be left guessing.

On returning home, her mother told her of George’s acceptance of an invitation to lunch.

“There’s a matinee at the Lyric, and he’s taking us there,” she added.  “But, dear,” she went on, “you look ever so pale!  What is worrying you?  I hope you are not fretting over that good-for-nothing waster, Henfrey!  Personally, I’m glad to be rid of a fellow who is wanted by the police for a very serious crime.  Do brighten up, dear.  This is not like you!”