Margaret passed her arm through his and leaned a little towards him.

“If you knew just one thing I have never told you,” she confided, “I think that you would feel sorry for him.  I do, more and more every day, because in a way that one thing is my fault.”

Notwithstanding the warm sunshine, she suddenly shivered.  Francis took her hands in his.  They were cold and lifeless.

“I know that one thing, dear,” he told her quietly.

She looked at him stonily.  There was a questioning fear in her eyes.

“You know—­”

“I know that your fattier killed Oliver Hilditch.”

She suddenly broke out into a stream of words.  There was passion in her tone and in her eyes.  She was almost the accuser.

“My father was right, then!” she exclaimed.  “He told me this morning that he believed that it was to you or to your friend at Scotland Yard that Walter had told his story.  But you don’t know you don’t know how terrible the temptation was how—­you see I say it quite coolly—­how Oliver Hilditch deserved to die.  He was trusted by my father in South America and he deceived him, he forged the letters which induced me to marry him.  It was part of his scheme of revenge.  This was the first time we had any of us met since.  I told my father the truth that afternoon.  He knew for the first time how my marriage came about.  My husband had prayed me to keep silent.  I refused.  Then he became like a devil.  We were there, we three, that night after you left, and Francis, as I live, if my father had not killed him, I should have!”

“There was a time when I believed that you had,” he reminded her.  “I didn’t behave like a pedagogic upholder of the letter of the law then, did I?”

She drew closer to him.

“You were wonderful,” she whispered.

“Dearest, your father has nothing to fear from me,” he assured her tenderly.  “On the contrary, I think that I can show him the way to safety.”

She rose impulsively to her feet.

“He will be here directly,” she said.  “He promised to come across at half-past twelve.  Let us go and meet him.  But, Francis—­”

For a single moment she crept into his arms.  Their lips met, her eyes shone into his.  He held her away from him a moment later.  The change was amazing.  She was no longer a tired woman.  She had become a girl again.  Her eyes were soft with happiness, the little lines had gone from about her mouth, she walked with all the spring of youth and happiness.

“It is marvellous,” she whispered.  “I never dreamed that I should ever be happy again.”

They crossed the rustic bridge which led on to the lawn.  Lady Cynthia came out of the house to meet them.  She showed no signs of fatigue, but her eyes and her tone were full of anxiety.

“Margaret,” she cried, “do you know that the hall is filled with your father’s luggage, and that the car is ordered to take him to Southampton directly after lunch?”