“I cannot make myself speak now, and you can’t go in there alone.”

“Why not?”

“There’s Martin looking at you. He knows what we are talking about.”

“Perhaps he does, and if so he’s more afraid of me than I am of him. At any rate I must go. You keep on toward the village, and I’ll catch you up. If I have to wait I’ll have some one walk home with me. And please, please understand that I’m not afraid, because there’s nothing to fear. I know now why we came this way to-day for the first time.”

Mrs. Millicent sighed despairingly and turned away. There was a look on the girl’s face she could not meet, and Martin had not moved.

Jean rallied her courage, passed between the white gates, and walked firmly up the drive. Martin saw her coming and stepped back till he was half screened among his roses. His face was working. When she drew level he touched his cap the second time, and for an instant their eyes met. In hers there was a cold recognition; in his a sort of mute and restless petition. Yes, he knew why she had come and what she was about to impart to his new employer. A surge of impotent anger shot through him, and he turned silently lest he should betray it. He had not reckoned on this when in the Burmese jungle there reached him the first of those discomforting promptings that finally brought him half-way round the world, he knew not why. Jean did not look back. Her eyes were fixed on the too familiar door. It opened almost at once, and she met the changeless look of Perkins. Now she could speak, but the sight of the hall, its rugs and pictures, all as though she had never left them, was nearly too much. They were as unchanged as Perkins herself. Suddenly she felt like an intruder or a thief and wanted to leave. At that she remembered Martin.

“Good afternoon, Perkins. Is Mrs. Derrick in?”

“There is no Mrs. Derrick, miss. It’s Mr. Derrick’s sister who is here.”

“Oh, is she in, then?”

“No, miss, but Mr. Derrick is here.”

“Then I’d like to see him for a moment.”

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