She was very young, very inexperienced.

When Marigold fell wildly in love with well-known author Lindley Marne, she was in more trouble than she realized. Luckily, someone came to her rescue.

That someone was Paul Irving. He was different from Lindley in every way, and he soon engendered in Marigold feelings of real love that resulted in marriage.

Marigold had every reason to believe her marriage would be totally happy. She felt that all her dreams had come true. But there was something she was keeping back from Paul—a secret that could ruin everything...

© The estate of Mary Burchell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises B.V.

Printed in Great Britain

© 1970

Mary Burchell

Dare I Be Happy

CHAPTER I

TH ER E was still time to run away.

He had his back to her now as he made his way slowly through the crowd by the booking

office. If she made up her mind now—this moment

'Mind your backs, please! Mind your backs in here, please!'

Marigold realised suddenly that the bellow of irritated entreaty was addressed to herself, and

hastily moved out of the way of a porter who was pushing a luggage-laden truck before him.

She shivered as a queer little chill of something between guilt and dread seemed to slide

down her spine, and mechanically she moved to allow another stream of people to pass. What

would they think if they knew about this stolen weekend with Lindley, with a married man?

There was still time to run away—if she wanted to.

She glanced once more across the crowded space of the station. Lindley had reached the

ticket office now. She could see him in profile, laughing at something the clerk was saying.

That was how he had looked when she first fell in love with him.

And, at that thought, suddenly everything was all right again. She didn't even know why she

had shivered a moment ago. At any rate it could have had nothing to do with doubts because all

those had been met and dealt with long ago. Her mind was made up.

As he came back to her through the crowd she smiled irrepressibly at him. He was so tall, so

fantastically handsome, so—oh, radiant and vital. Different from everyone and everything else

that had made up the rather drab sum of life during the last two years.

And he was hers. He belonged to her, as he could never have belonged to that other woman

—the pale shadow in the background of his life —the woman he had married.

He was beside her now, laughing down at her.

'Did you think I wasn't coming back? I thought you might have run away.'

And when he said it, the idea was just an absurd joke, and she laughed too, with something

like relief.

'Come along.'

Even through her coat-sleeve she could feel the firm pressure of his hand round her arm, and

her heart seemed to leap in an eager, almost frightening response. She remembered she had heard

once that the appeal of touch was the most primitive in the world. One didn't think of anything

primitive in connection with someone as polished and sophisticated as Lindley, and yet she knew

instinctively the truth of that assertion. When he held her arm like that, lightly but firmly, she

hardly knew whether she wanted to cry or to cling to him and kiss him.

It was impossible to find even a first-class compartment which was not at least half full, but

in a queer way that was almost a relief. Prolonging the anticipation was so much better than

coming to grips with the reality of the situation—however wonderful.

The next moment she guiltily corrected that thought in her own mind. She was startled even

to find that she had put it like that to herself. The most wonderful thing was that she and Lindley

were together at last. Only a coward would want to consider any other aspect of the case now.

Even as she thought that, the whistle blew shrilly. The train began to move slowly, people on

the platform stepped back, waving energetically and shouting last-minute messages.

They were gathering speed now, the noise and bustle of the station was behind them and the

warehouses and offices flicking past the window had no familiarity or identity.

There was no longer time to run away.

She glanced across the compartment at Lindley and found his smiling eyes on her. She

smiled quickly, a little timidly, in return, and then looked back again out of the window.

The dullness of the November afternoon had changed rapidly into the almost complete dark-

ness of an overhead fog. Presently all that was really visible was the reflection of her own face in

the darkened glass.

Marigold studied it critically. Funny to think that those wide grey eyes and that slightly

pointed chin had actually awakened such passionate adoration in anyone so wonderful as

Lindley. It was quite an attractive, heart-shaped little face, Marigold supposed objectively, and

her hair was unusually soft and fine and fair. But none of that seemed to justify the fact that

Lindley had found her lovely from the first moment, three months ago, when he had come into

the publisher's office where she worked.

It was the first exciting thing that had happened in that office since Marigold had come there

two years before—wretched, bewildered and heartbroken after her parents had been killed in a

car crash which left her miraculously uninjured, at any rate physically.

By the time she had recovered from the shock —in the medical sense of that phrase—her

parents had been buried some days, and her father's legal adviser had the disagreeable task of

explaining to her that, like many pleasant, easygoing and not very deep-thinking people, her

parents had not been very provident for the future. The question of Marigold's earning her own

living had assumed an urgency which was terrifying.

Through the good offices of the lawyer, she had found a tiny flat and a job in a well-known

publishing firm. The anxiety about day-to-day expenses became less, and so, in a way, did the

sharpness of her grief for her lost parents. But as for the loneliness—somehow that had only

grown worse as the months went by.

And then Lindley had walked into the office and into her life.

His big, picturesque grace had dazzled her from the first. She had hardly noticed that first

time that his thick dark hair had a touch of grey in it. She had been too much fascinated by the

peculiar lightness of his hazel eyes in the dark tan of his face, and by the essential youthfulness

of his brilliant smile.

It was not usually her business to interview her employer's clients—certainly not such an

important one as Lindley Marfle, whose books of travel and personal reminiscences were

admitted, even by the critics, to be 'unique.' But some blessed mischance—a breakdown on the

Tube or something of the sort—had delayed both her employer and his eminently capable

secretary. So that it fell to Marigold's rather trembling lot to entertain Lindley Marne for

something more than half an hour.

If she had had time to think about it or anticipate the interview, she would have been scared.

As it was, before she knew what was happening, he was sitting carelessly on the side of her desk,

dazzling her with his smile, warming her with his obvious admiration, making her realise that,

after all, life was a gay and gorgeous adventure.

By the time her employer arrived, she and Lindley Marne were talking like old friends.

Of course, she had realised immediately that this was now the end. He had been charming to

the office typist only because there was half an hour to fill in—and it was beyond him to be

anything else but charming.

Then the next day—quite incredibly—he had rung her up. And the next day too. By the end

of the week she had agreed to go to dinner and a theatre with him. And after that life became one

long enchantment.

She found that he was engaged on some form of propaganda for the Government—work

which had already taken him once to America and would probably do so again. And the thought

that there might be a limit set to their delightful association only added value and significance to

the passing days.

Almost from the beginning he had told her he was married, and although the discovery was a

shock for her, she admired him for his absolute frankness. There was never the slightest hint of

'misunderstood husband' about him—never the least appeal for any sort of sympathy, but she

realised that his marriage had in some way been a tragic failure.

Gradually she gathered a very clear impression of the cold, beautiful, critically conventional

woman who evidently had no interest in her husband's work or personality or gaily romantic

view of life. She preferred to live in the country, it seemed, and had always refused to

accompany him on the travels which were the breath of life to him.

They must have been married some years, Marigold thought, because once he had said with

passionate intensity:

'I wish I'd known you long before.' And then added with an unhappy little laugh: 'Oh, but

you'd have been a baby then.'

'I'm twenty-two,' Marigold had explained quickly. Whereat he had laughed and said twenty-

two was not much of an age either.

During the three months of their growing love for each other, Marigold had not been without

some acute qualms of conscience, but always with a sort of surprised wonder that anything could

interrupt the beautiful, inevitable progress of their love story.

And then what she had dreaded had happened. Lindley had been ordered abroad again.

'It may not be for very long,' he told her. But neither he nor she really believed that, she

knew. Besides, the fact was that—long or short—separation would mean the end of everything

that now mattered. If she had been his wife

He had been wretched too, she knew. And then two days ago had come the sudden breaking

of the last barriers.

'It's no good, Mari. We can't go on like this,' he had pleaded. 'It's empty and futile, this meet-

ing and parting, and never knowing when we're going to see each other again. You must come

away with me, darling. It isn't as though there's anyone who could be hurt by it. Come away with

me next weekend. We'll go somewhere on the South Coast, where there's still a chance of sun-

shine and happiness—and a chance to talk over one's future.'

It was that last phrase which made her say, 'Yes.' She was ashamed and a little frightened to

remember just how easily she had said, 'Yes.' But 'a chance to talk over one's future' could mean

only one thing. He meant to arrange for his wife to divorce him and then some day—in the not

too distant future—he would marry her, and that would mean no more separations, even if his

work took him to America a third time. She must show him that she had the courage and

resolution to go the whole way with him.

Besides—what was the good of pretending or being ashamed?—she wanted to go away with

Lindley.

The train was slackening speed now, and the other people in the carriage were preparing to

get out. She glanced at her watch and realised with surprise that they were more than halfway to

their destination.

They were lucky and no one else got in at this station, and the moment the train had started

again Lindley came over to her side.

'How confoundedly long that part of the journey seemed,' he exclaimed, and took her in his

arms.

'Did it?' she smiled up at him.

He kissed her lightly, but she knew how much that apparently careless caress meant.

'Well, what do you suppose it's like, sitting opposite to you and pretending you don't matter?'

She laughed and leaned her head against him with a contented little sigh. And at that he

seemed to recollect something and thrust his hand into an inner pocket.

'Oh, I have something here for you, Mari. I think you'd better wear it, darling.'

'But—' Speechless with surprise and dismay, she stared at the thin gold ring in the palm of

his hand. 'But it's a wedding ring,' she said, finding her voice again at last. 'I can't wear that—

yet.'

She wondered if she only imagined that she felt him stiffen' slightly. But surely he must

understand her revulsion of feeling!

'It makes so many things simpler,' he said. 'I—couldn't.' Her voice was oddly breathless and she

didn't stop to pick her words. 'Besides, I—we—'

Did you mean to pass me off as your wife?'

'Well, what else, my dear?' He sounded almost amused for a moment. 'Did you suppose we

were to be remote acquaintances staying at opposite ends of the hotel?'

'No. No, of course not.' For a moment she tried to decide exactly what she had thought.

'Only I'd rather be honest about it. Rather——'

'Honest, darling?' He really did laugh then. 'Why, where is the dishonesty? Does it really

worry you if the reception clerk hasn't got things quite straight, poor fellow?'

'It's not that.' She wished she could explain just what 'it' was. But he was already laughing

away further protests.

'I should think not, indeed. It's just that you're sweet and absurd and very artless. But you

leave this to me. We are Mr. and Mrs. Marne, snatching a free weekend from a busy life in

Town. And so ' He slipped the ring on her finger without completing the sentence.

There was nothing else to say, but the ring felt like a circle of fire.

At the intense seriousness of her expression, he raised his eyebrows and smiled in

affectionate protest.

'You mustn't torment your conscience about such a formality, darling. It's always best to wear

a ring. It stops awkward questions before people think of asking them.'

Still she said nothing, but the reason for her silence was different now. One sentence had hit

her like a blow between the eyes.

'It's always best to wear a ring.'

Just what did that 'always' mean? Something deep down in her stirred with an instinctive

sense of danger. In another moment she would have voiced the angry, frightened question. But

just then the door into the corridor was unceremoniously pushed back, the guard called over his

shoulder to someone who was still invisible, 'Here y'are, lady. Lots of room in here,' and a

moment later a large and perspiring woman, laden with parcels, pushed into the compartment

and sank thankfully down on the seat opposite.

The interruption could hardly have been more untimely, yet Lindley, with unquenchable

good humour, jumped to his feet and began to put luggage into the rack for the pantingly grateful

newcomer.

For a cynical moment Marigold wondered whether natural good nature or relief at the

interruption accounted for Lindley's behaviour. Then she told herself that she was being nervy

and unreasonable, that she was looking for trouble where none was to be found, and that if one

started with a ridiculous lack of faith in the man one loved, how was one to steer through the dif-

ficult course ahead?

What was one word, after all? One word uttered in an unthinking moment. She told herself

that her vague suspicions were absurd. And by the time they reached their destination she had

almost convinced herself that they were.

It was a trying moment when she entered the lounge of the big hotel where they were to stay,

and she felt that everyone must know about that ring which she had no right to wear.

She felt guilty and ashamed all the way up in the mirror-lined lift, and into the beautiful rose-

carpeted bedroom, where thick, soft curtains shut out the sight—and almost the sound—of the

sea.

By then she could not have said which of the many conflicting emotions was making her heart thud so unnaturally. She only knew that, as the door closed behind the page, and Lindley snatched her into his arms, for the first time she winced as his mouth touched hers.

Perhaps he sensed that she was overwrought, because he said almost immediately:

'I expect you want to unpack a few things. I'll go down and order drinks. You'll find me in

the lounge in about ten minutes.'

When he had gone she didn't unpack. She walked up and down the room in agitation. It was

all right, she kept on telling herself, it was all right. She had known all along she was to share a

room with him.

But what had he meant by, 'It's always best to wear a ring'?

There was no answer to that in her frightened thoughts. And presently she went downstairs.

He was sitting in the lounge, but obviously waiting for her coming, because he got up the

moment she appeared in the doorway and came across to meet her. Upstairs she had imagined

that she would be able to speak to him frankly —to put even the hateful question which was

causing her so much misery. But, now she was with him, such a thought was preposterous.

While she drank her sherry she knew there was no way she could frame her enquiry without

making it sound like an accusation that he was a philanderer and a cad.

Over dinner he was his entertaining and amusing self. If he sensed the slightest restraint on

her part, at least he knew how to ignore it tactfully, and certainly he was not suffering from any

himself. And gradually she too felt her heart lighten and her fears and doubts dissolve. It was

impossible to be with Lindley and not find his charm both reassuring and irresistible.

Afterwards they found a quiet corner of the big, softly-lighted lounge, and were able to talk

there in an intimacy and privacy which was almost, thought Marigold wistfully, like being in a

home of their own.

'We must do this often, Mari,' he said at last, his arm along the back of the settee behind her

and his challenging smile full on her. 'Theatre and restaurant meetings are all very well, but they

aren't much fun when what you want is to talk and be happy together.'

'Do—this—often.' She repeated his words slowly and a little breathlessly. 'But we can't.

You're going to America in a week or two.'

'Oh, yes, I know. But that won't last for ever,' he declared cheerfully. 'One month—two

months. They'll soon pass, my dear. And when I come back we'll do this again. You and I will

see the dawn rise over the Alps, or moonlight flooding the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio, or we'll

listen to the mountain streams chattering through Swiss villages, and, Oh, there are a hundred

things I long to show you and teach you. The day will come.'

His smile was brilliant as he talked of the things he really loved, and she tried to form her

stiff lips into a smile of appreciation and sympathy. But the smile was not much of a success, she

knew, because her heart was hammering uncomfortably, and round and round in her mind went

the question, 'But why doesn't he say anything about marriage?'

'Won't you love all that, darling?' He wanted her eager assurance, and for a moment he

paused in his catalogue of the joys ahead in order to receive it.

'Yes, of course. Is—is that what you meant when you said we'd have a chance to discuss our

future here?'

'Did I say that?' He smiled reflectively. 'Yes, I believe I did. I suppose that was what I meant.

Sometimes even when the present is enchanting one wants to plan for the future too.'

'Yes.' Marigold found her voice with difficulty. 'One wants to plan for the future too.'

Then he hadn't meant anything to do with marriage. All that was simply in her own stupid

imagination. He had called her 'artless' an hour or two ago. She was more than that—she was a

fool.

And yet surely she had not been mistaken? There was something in his manner to her—at

least, there always had been—something which suggested she was more to him than a passing

fancy. Oh, more than suggested it! He behaved as though she were the one overwhelming love of

his life. She had believed that. She would never have come away with him otherwise.

Marigold was aware suddenly that he was looking at her with unusual attention, and, for the

first time, she saw that his eyes could narrow very slightly in a way she had never noticed before.

Only a trick, of course, but—.

'My dear, is anything wrong?'

'No. No, of course not.' At least she must not let him know what she was thinking.

'But I believe there is. Mari——'

She never knew what it was he was going to say to her, because just at that moment a waiter

came up and told him he was wanted on the telephone.

'Eh?' He was annoyed at the interruption. And then, evidently remembering suddenly, he got

up. 'Oh, yes, of course. It's a business call from London. I shan't be long.'

She watched him as he went from her across the lounge. Just as handsome, just as tall, just as

attractive as ever. Only something was different.

If only she knew what to do! If only there were something she could do! But she was

marooned here, miles from London. It was late in the evening and she was committed to an

unmistakable path.

Overwhelmed with the thought of her position, Marigold almost literally shrank into the

corner of the high-backed settee. Two men had dropped down rather heavily into chairs which

backed on to her settee, but with a shame and a self-disgust which was rapidly growing, she felt

that even to be seen by strangers would be unbearable. Alone with her thoughts—

And then her attention was caught by something they were saying. She heard the name,

'Lindley Marne.'

'. . . quite unmistakable—saw him just for a minute, but he seemed in a hurry. Phone call or

something.'

'Phone call?' The other man laughed. 'More likely he didn't want to be recognised just then,

lie's down here with one of his weekend girls, I think. At least, a very pretty little piece came in

with him an hour or two ago. Very much his type—'

Marigold didn't wait to hear any more. She couldn't help it if one of those odious men looked

after her and identified her. It didn't matter, anyway. Nothing mattered.

One of his weekend girls!

She had no idea where she was going. She only knew that she couldn't stay one moment

longer in that place—couldn't be there when Lindley came back from his telephone call—

couldn't stay in that beautiful room upstairs—waiting for him.

She would have to go back just once, to fetch her things. But after that she must get away.

And she must hurry—she must hurry. Suppose he came upstairs while she was repacking the few

things she had unpacked! With what she hoped was a natural glance round the big vestibule, she

ascertained that, wherever the telephone boxes were, they commanded no view of the hall, and a

second later she gained the foot of the stairs. Better not look around for the lift, but one must run

upstairs—so much of the flight was in full view of the hall below.

She ran as fast as decency permitted, turned the wide sweep of the stairs, dashed on up the

remainder of the flight—and collided violently with someone who was pausing to light a ciga-

rette in the passage above.

'I'm so sorry!'

'Not at all. Ridiculous place for me to stop, I'm afraid—I wasn't thinking.'

The man who turned to answer her gasping apology was smiling contritely but as he took in

her general appearance he said, in quite a different tone:

'Is something the matter?'

'N—no. I was in a hurry.'

'So I gathered.'

She said: 'I'm sorry. I hope I didn't hurt you.' Then she walked without undue haste to the

door of the bedroom and went in.

She thought the man stood looking after her, and she was not quite sure whether he went

downstairs after that or into one of the other rooms. Anyway, it didn't matter. All she had to do

now was to get her things together—she was already feverishly throwing them into her suitcase

—and then somehow slip away out of the place without Lindley knowing.

Without the management knowing too, she supposed the next moment, as a nightmare scene of

herself trying to explain things at the desk and being caught there by Lindley—rose before her.

She actually had to catch back a sob of sheer dismay as the difficulties of her position

seemed to press in upon her. But as her one chance was in keeping calm and cool, she fiercely

choked down the desire to cry, and tried to shut down her case. Something caught and prevented

it closing, and with shaking fingers and fretted nerves she had to open the thing and push the

contents about in further- confusion before she could press down the lid and thankfully feel the

catch fasten at last.

She had everything, and was ready for her flight at last. Which was better—to find some

melodramatic and unquestioned way out via a fire-escape, or something equally improbable, or

to walk boldly downstairs, pause at the desk and pay her part of the bill, and count on doing all

that and getting out of the hotel before Lindley could discover her?

To her shame, she found that she was actually tip-toeing along the corridor—an entirely un-

necessary and quite ridiculous precaution, only calculated to inspire surprise and suspicion in

anyone she might chance to meet.

She stepped out boldly—and then drew back in horror. Lindley was coming up the stairs.

In a matter of seconds he must raise his head and see her. There was only one thing to be

done. Opening the door beside which she was standing, she stepped into the room, shut the door

quickly behind her and leant against it, panting a little, with fear rather than haste.

As she did so, the man with whom she had collided at the top of the stairs looked up from

fastening his suitcase and said—

'Hello! What's the matter this time?'

'It's nothing.' She spoke mechanically, almost in a whisper, because she was terrified that the

sound of her voice might reach Lindley, even through the door.

'"Nothing" be damned,' was the perfectly pleasant reply. 'At least, it's unusual.'

'I—mistook the door,' Marigold said desperately.

'Well, don't let me hurry you, but——' His raised eyebrows completed his sentence.

But she couldn't venture out into the corridor again for a moment! Lindley might simply glance

into their darkened room and come away again.

'I'm sorry. It must seem ridiculous, but please do you mind if I stay here for a moment?"

For answer he went over to a side table and poured out a glass of water.

'You'd better come and sit down—and drink this. I'm sorry I've nothing stronger. I'll ring for

something, if you like.'

'Oh, no!' The very thought of complicating the situation roused her to panic-stricken protest.

Besides, the door must remain shut.

'All right. Come and sit down.' Then, as she mechanically obeyed him: 'What is this? A

paperback thriller?'

'No, no. It's really quite simple.' And then the impossibility of supplying any simple explanation

overcame her, and she thankfully took the glass of water and drank some of it.

As she did so her paralysed thoughts began to clear, and suddenly her wits were functioning

again—and the first thing she noticed was that this man had his heavy overcoat on and that a

fastened suitcase stood on a chair nearby.

Then if he were going away there must be a train to somewhere! She had been so terribly afraid

that there was nowhere to go, even if she got away from the hotel. Now there was a gleam of

hope. The train might even go to London. London—which now seemed all that was dear and

safe and desirable.

'Are you going away tonight?' She didn't stop to choose her words or to recollect how extra-

ordinary her question must sound.

'I am.' He looked as surprised as he was entitled to.

'I'm sorry. I wasn't meaning to be inquisitive. Only I want to get back to London tonight and I

was afraid there wasn't a train.'

'I'm afraid there isn't,' he told her. 'The last one went at least half an hour ago.'

'Oh, no!' The disappointment made her bite her lip. Then, because anywhere was better than

here, she added not very lucidly, 'Well, where is there a train for?'

'I don't think there are any more trains from here tonight. It's the kind of station that reckons

to close its doors very finally at nine-thirty you know.'

'I was afraid so. But'—she looked anxiously from him to his case—'I thought you said you

were going.'

'Oh, I'm going by car,' he explained.

He didn't offer to amplify that, but desperation drove her into further speech.

'Are you—are you going to London?'

'Within fifteen miles of it. But London's a big place, you know.' He was evidently not pining

to come gallantly to her rescue.

'I—I must get to London tonight,' she exclaimed pleadingly.

'Or almost anywhere else,' he reminded her dryly, and she was forced to recall her peculiar

indifference to where a train might be going, so long as it was going away from here.

She stared at him in silent dismay for a moment, and he looked back at her as though trying

to make up his mind about something.

'Look here, have you committed a murder or pinched someone's pearls?' he enquired

conversationally, taking the half-empty glass from her hand.

'Oh no!' Quite against her will she gave a small laugh at the idea. 'It's just—'

She hesitated, racking her brains for some explanation which would appear even remotely

probable, while he waited politely for what she would say.

'It may sound silly, but I'm in a dreadfully awkward position '

'I'd got as far as that myself,' he assured her.

'I came down here with'—her imagination suddenly took a wild leap and landed on some-

thing like firm ground—'with an elderly uncle of mine. I—I hadn't seen him for some years, but

he used to be very kind to me when I was a child. He found me working very hard at my office

and—and wanted to give me a nice weekend.'

'Yes?' The man seemed genuinely interested in what she was saying.

'I—I never thought of anything unpleasant. But, as I told you, I hadn't seen him for some

years, and in between he's grown simply—simply awful. He drinks much too much and he—he

got horribly silly and familiar. I can't stay down here a minute longer. I just want to get away.

Please do understand and please—please do help me.'

She sat there looking up at him, her hands twisted together hard in her lap. She felt that if he

advised her to go to bed and lock her door and not be silly, she would scream.

But perhaps there was something so truly frightened in the wide grey eyes which stared up at

him that he was moved to believe the almost unbelievable.

'Is your uncle that extremely unpleasant old boy in the bar with a couple of chins and an out-

size waistcoat?' he enquired.

'Yes,' Marigold heard herself assuring him eagerly. 'Yes, that's Uncle.'

'Then you must have been uncommonly silly to accept "a nice weekend" with him,' remarked

the man as he reached for his hat. 'Come along, then. I'll take you as far as I can.'

'Oh, thank you! She nearly spoilt everything by bursting into tears, but with one more effort

she controlled herself. 'I—I don't want to chance meeting him.'

'No, of course not. We don't want a scene in the lounge.' Marigold shuddered. 'I'll take you

down the back staircase. I know this place quite well. I've often stayed here.'

'But—but what about your bill?' Her mind clung to the minor details which had threatened

such dire complications to her own departure.

'Oh, I'm not bilking,' he assured her with a dry smile, and she suddenly noticed what well-

spaced, shrewd dark eyes he had. 'I paid my bill a quarter of an hour ago, and as for yours—we'll

leave that to Uncle. He expects it.'

Three minutes later they were humming down the road, away from the hotel, away from

Lindley, away from the weekend she had anticipated with such frightened joy.

For a while the reaction from the last hour, and the sudden release from the necessity for

action, made her feel slack and tired and wordless. Apparently he realised something of her

feelings—or else he was intent on the problem of night-driving. At any rate he said nothing until

a long sigh from Marigold made him laugh slightly and enquire:

'Feeling better now?'

'Yes, thank you. Lots better.' It was true. Considering she had just emerged from the

wreckage of all her hopes and illusions, she felt singularly free from wretchedness. But that, of

course, was the relief from crushing anxiety.

'Um,' he said—rather sympathetically, she thought. 'Pretty nasty experience for you, wasn't

it?'

'Yes, pretty nasty.'

'Am I taking you home to Mother—or what?'

'No,' she said. 'No, my mother's dead. So is my father. They were both killed in a car crash.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.' There was a different note in his voice that time. 'I wouldn't have asked if

I —'

'It's all right. It was two years ago.'

He was silent for a minute or two. Then he asked:

'Are you living on your own now?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'At Highgate.'

He whistled softly.

'Is that a long way out of your way?' she asked anxiously.

'Just about the other side of London,' he said cheerfully.

'I'm sorry. Perhaps if you could put me down near a Tube station '

'I hardly think the trains would be running right through by the time we get there,' he said.

'Besides, I was wondering—' He paused, and after a moment she prompted him anxiously: 'Yes?

What were you wondering?' 'Look here.' He seemed to make up his mind about something in

rather the same way he had when he had agreed suddenly to take her with him. 'It isn't the

question of distance—I don't like the idea of your going to your place all on your own after the

sort of experience you've had. And I suppose there'll be nothing ready for you, and nothing much

to eat tomorrow, because it's Sunday and you expected to be away. Isn't that about right?'

'Yes,' Marigold admitted. 'I suppose it is a bit like that. But I can manage,' she added hastily,

trying not to feel sick with disappointment and loneliness at the sudden contrast between her

hopes and realities.

'Well, I don't want you to manage,' came the firm retort out of the semi-darkness of the car.

'I'm going to take you with me. I'm going to my sister's place. I rang her earlier in the evening

and told her to expect me late. I'll take you there. She'll understand and willingly put you up.'

'But—but I'm a complete stranger. I don't even know your name. I—'

'It's Paul Irving, if that makes any difference. And I'm highly respectable and my sister is

even more so.'

'If you're—quite sure—it's all right,' she began.

'Quite sure,' he told her emphatically. 'And we haven't much further to go now.'

'It's terribly kind of you,' she said in a small voice, and she hoped there would be another

occasion to express her gratitude properly, because, at the moment, there was too much of a

lump in her throat for her to be able to say more.

So she sat quite still beside him in the car and tried to recollect more clearly how he looked.

At the time of their meeting in the hotel, he had been nothing more than an instrument of escape

and she had hardly noticed anything personal about him. Now she remembered that he was tall

and rather loosely built. Not specially young, but younger than——'

She sharply recalled her thoughts from Lindley.

This man was reliable-looking, rather than good-looking, and she remembered again his

dark, attractively set eyes, which inspired confidence.

She really couldn't remember much more about him, and after that she let her thoughts

wander until he said, 'Here we are,' and she was aware that they had turned in at a semicircular

drive and come to a standstill in front of a small, compact, double-fronted house.

He helped her out and rang the bell.

Evidently their arrival had already been noticed, because the bell had hardly stopped ringing

before someone opened the door and against the dim light of the hall Marigold saw a tall girl

whose hair, even in that light, showed as deep, rich copper colour.

'Here, Stephanie, I've brought you a visitor/ Paul Irving's voice said from behind her. 'Be

your nicest to her while I put away the car. She's had a nasty fright tonight.'

'You poor little thing! Come on in.' The girl's voice was warm and rich, like the colour of her

hair, and she put her arm round Marigold as she led her through the hall to a firelit room beyond.

'You must be frightfully cold—it's such a beastly night. Sit down by the fire and I'll get you

something hot to eat.'

Marigold tried to find her voice to protest that she was not the least hungry and that there was

no need for anyone to bother over her. But as she looked up, her voice died in her throat, and for

a moment her fascinated gaze travelled from her hostess to a table standing against the wall.

Facing her and smiling at her with almost insolent charm and self-assurance was an excellent

photograph of Lindley Marne.

CHAPTER II

THE girl whom Paul Irving had called Stephanie went on talking, without appearing to expect

much in the way of a reply. Which was just as well, because Marigold was quite unable to pay

my close attention to what was being said.

After staring aghast at Lindley's photograph for a couple of seconds, she somehow managed

to drag her gaze away, but she glanced back surreptitiously from time to time, wondering

distractedly what its significance was, here in this room.

Was this charming, hospitable creature—who was even now anxiously making up the

excellent fire on her behalf—another of Lindley's 'weekend girls'? The coincidence would be

quite horrid and fantastic enough to be in keeping with this incredible evening. On the other

hand, the girl certainly didn't look the kind who would go casually weekending with a man. Nor

did she look the sort to be easily deluded. ('Like me,' thought Marigold with a good deal of self-

contempt.)

There must be some simple explanation. Life couldn't go on being so melodramatic. After all,

the most likely thing was that Lindley was a friend of the family, whose photograph graced the

sitting-room because he was something of a celebrity. And, clinging to this blessedly sane

explanation, Marigold recovered sufficiently to express some sort of thanks for the trouble that

was being taken on her behalf. So that when Paul Irving came into the room a moment later, she

managed to summon up a smile.

As he stood there for a moment in the doorway, his dark eyes slightly narrowed against the

bright light, and his thick brown hair dishevelled and damp from the mist outside, he looked

much younger than he had before. And both the smile and the kiss which he bestowed upon his

sister had something engagingly boyish about them, though Marigold—now that she considered

him attentively—put his age at not less than thirty.

Stephanie returned the kiss with evident affection.

'Would you like to do some introducing now?' she said. At which he laughed and replied, as

though the discovery surprised him:

'I'm afraid I can't. I don't even know what our visitor's name is.'

'Oh, I never thought to tell you.' Marigold looked up quickly. 'It's Turner—Marigold Turner.'

What a pretty name. I've never known a Marigold before. My name is Stephanie, as I expect

you heard Paul say. Stephanie Marne, would you like to come upstairs now and I'll show you

your room. Then you can have a hot wish while I get you both something to eat. You must be

starving.'

Somehow Marigold got to her feet, though the second shock made her feel almost as dazed

as the first.

Stephanie Marne! It was impossible—quite, quite impossible!

Fortunately neither was looking directly at her. Paul was lighting a cigarette and was having

trouble with the lighter, and Stephanie had already turned to lead the way upstairs.

In silence, Marigold followed her—across the small, cheerful hall and upstairs to a charming

bedroom, where a bright little electric fire shed a comforting glow on apple-green chintz and

white-painted furniture.

'You can have the room I got ready for Paul. It won't take any time to put him up in my other

spare room.'

'Oh, but isn't that rather a shame? I mean —this is so warm and cosy and all ready for him. I

can't turn him out!'

'He won't mind,' Stephanie smiled. 'He'll be all right in the other room, and you need it more.

I don't think you know how white and fagged you look.'

Marigold gave in. It was impossible to protest against so much kindness. Besides, there was

something she had to say before her hostess left her alone. Something much more important than

any question of where she was to sleep.

'What did you say your other name was?' she asked, with an abruptness which she immedi-

ately felt was ill-judged. 'I—I mean, I thought your brother said his name was Irving, and yet—'

'Oh, as a matter of fact, we never had the same name. I'm not really his sister at all—not even

a stepsister. I was an adoptee—or whatever the right word is for someone who is adopted,'

Stephanie explained. 'But anyway, Marne is my married name. My husband is Lindley Marne,

the writer. That's his photograph downstairs. You may have heard of him.'

'Yes,' Marigold said slowly, 'I've heard of him.'

And then Lindley's wife gave her a pleasant little nod, and went away, after having told her

that the bathroom was across the landing and that she was to make herself at home, even to the

extent of having a hot bath right away if she felt really chilled.

When she was left alone Marigold sat down slowly in the chintz-covered chair by the fire.

She didn't want a bath. She had forgotten now that she had ever felt chilled. She wanted only to

sit there quite still and try to take in the incredible facts which had been crowding upon her.

So this was Lindley's wife! This girl—no, perhaps 'woman' was the word—with her warm,

rich colouring and her warm and kindly temperament. Could anything be more different from the

cold, statuesque, unsympathetic creature which Marigold's imagination had presented to her as

the wife of the misunderstood Lindley?

She burnt with shame as she thought of the gross injustice which she had been prepared to do

this charming woman. An injustice which, but for a series of accidental happenings, she would

have carried through to its bitter and irretrievable conclusion.

A sense of guilt, heavier than anything which had visited her in all her relationship with

Lindley, weighed so terribly upon her at this moment that Marigold felt the only possible thing

was to slip away out of the house so that no more coals of fire, in the shape of undeserved

kindnesses, could be heaped upon her repentant head.

Common sense demanded something a little less abasing and eccentric, but for a few

moments Marigold did really feel that she could not go downstairs and face her hostess—or, for

that matter, the man who had come to her rescue almost without question, and who, now that he

had her in his sister's house, regarded her with a mixture of kindliness, amusement and puzzle-

ment which she found exceedingly disquieting.

If he could possibly imagine for one moment the situation from which he had really saved

her!

Life, Marigold realised, was becoming quite terrifyingly complicated. And then, with an

effort, she recalled the fact that she had already idled away an absurd amount of time. She must

wash and tidy and hurry downstairs, and put as good a face as possible on the awkward situation

in which she found herself.

But, lively though her dread had been of the scene awaiting her, she found as soon as she was

downstairs, that it was impossible to maintain that feeling of nervous tension in the company of

Stephanie Marne and her brother. There was a directness and simplicity about them which put

her at her ease in spite of herself and, over the hastily improvised meal, Marigold found herself

calling them by their Christian names (as they did with her) and entering into their gay, incon-

sequential conversation as though she had known them for years.

If only this had happened, she thought, before she met Lindley! With kind, sane, common-

sense friends like these, one would perhaps never have been tempted to embark on that ridi-

culous and shameful adventure with Lindley.

'Poor child! She's half asleep already.' Stephanie's voice broke in on her thoughts. 'And no

wonder. It's a ridiculous hour of the morning. You go to bed now, Marigold, and sleep as late as

you like. You're staying with us over tomorrow, of course.'

'Oh, but I couldn't!' Marigold exclaimed, overcome by delicious terror at the prospect.

'Why not? Paul says you'd be going back to an empty flat and no food. You'd much better

stay with us.'

'Thank you.' Marigold laughed and flushed. 'But you can't really put up with a perfect

stranger for a whole weekend.'

'Why not?' Stephanie wanted to know equably. 'And, anyway, you aren't a stranger.'

'The only excuse to which we will agree to give ear is that you definitely don't want to stay,'!

Paul added, still with the same gravity which did not, however, reach his laughing eyes. 'If you

wish to cause us both mortal offence by suggesting that—'

'No, no! Of course not. I'd love to stay, but——'

'Then it's settled,' was the very final decision of both Stephanie and her brother. And Mari-

gold, divided between guilty fear and excited joy, had no further objection to make.

Of course it was preposterous to be staying here with Lindley's wife when what she had

really intended to do was to spend the weekend with Stephanie's husband. But events had proved

too much for her and perhaps the only really sensible thing to do was to take the pleasure of this

stolen weekend while she could, although, of course, she would somehow have to sever the

connection later.

That final thought did cause Marigold real dismay as she switched out the light and lay back

in bed. But there was no escaping from the reluctant conclusion. Too many lines would cross and

too many risks be invited if she allowed the friendship with Stephanie and Paul to become

'something more than a temporary delight. Any other time she might have lain awake and

worried over the inevitable loss of something which, she knew instinctively, would have meant

the end of the loneliness she dreaded so much. But the fears and hopes and excitements of a

scaring day had completely exhausted her at fist, and almost immediately Marigold fell deeply

and dreamlessly asleep.

She woke the next morning to bright wintry sunshine, the awareness of being perfectly rested

and the sadden discovery that Stephanie was standing beside her bed with a breakfast tray. By

the strong morning light she could see now what a very striking-looking woman Stephanie was.

Probably in her early thirties and, while not strictly beautiful, with a charm of colouring and

expression that was extremely arresting. Her beautiful copper-coloured hair grew back from her

forehead in deep, shining waves, and her skin was that peculiar warm cream shade, with a

natural matt surface, which goes only with that special shade of hair. Like Paul, she had eyes that

were dark and exceedingly well set, but, beyond that, they were so little alike that Marigold

thought now she must have realised, even without being told, that there was no real relationship

between them.

Stephanie came and sat down on the end o f the bed, apparently quite willing to talk while

Marigold had her breakfast.

'Paul told me about your wretched old uncle. I'm so sorry. It must have been hateful for you.'

'Yes, it—it was.' Marigold carefully spread butter on her toast and contrived not to look at

Stephanie. The lie about the apocryphal uncle seemed sillier and more shameful than ever now.

'But it's over. I'm not going to bother to think about it any more,' she added hastily.

And Stephanie said, 'No, I shouldn't,' as though it were quite usual to get involved in

questionable situations with horrid uncles and then have to be extricated.

'Anyway, I shouldn't have known you and Paul but for—for that happening.' She wanted

somehow to put into words that it had meant a great deal to her, knowing these two.

Stephanie smiled.

'That's true. And it was only just in time.'

'Only just in time?' Marigold was well aware of the truth of that from her own point of view,

but she was alarmed—and her tone showed it —that Stephanie should say that.

'Oh, that's not as dramatic as it sounds.' Stephanie laughed. 'Only this is my last weekend

here in this house. I'm coming up to London at the end of the week, and I shall be in digs or a flat

or something. I'm starting work in a nursery school there and I hope we shall see a lot of you,

Marigold.'

Somehow Marigold managed to say that she hoped so too.

It was true, of course. She did hope it with all her heart—only she had no idea where all this

could lead in the end. The more she wanted to keep the connection, the more imperative it

seemed to become that she should break it.

'Do you like your work?' Marigold asked, because she had to say something.

'Yes. I love it. I'm very fond of children.'

A truly dreadful possibility struck Marigold.

'You—you haven't got any children of your own, have you?'

'Oh, no.' Marigold drew a quick sigh of relief. Somehow her guilt would have, seemed even

heavier if there were children involved.

And then, as the silence lengthened a little oppressively, she glanced at Stephanie.

Stephanie gave a quick shrug and sighed slightly in her turn.

'I suppose you're bound to know pretty soon, since you're a friend of ours now,' she said,

thoughtfully pinching little humps in the eiderdown. 'My husband and I don't get on at all well.

We—well, we don't see much of each other.'

'I'm—sorry.' Marigold said—inadequately, she felt. And then, aware that there was

something else which she must add, she said hastily, 'I think I ought to tell you, before you say

anything else, that I work for the firm who publish your husband's books. I mean—you —well,

you might not want to say more about it, if you knew that.'

'Oh, do you really?' Stephanie looked surprised, perhaps because Marigold had not men-

tioned the fact last night when she first heard about Lindley Marne being her hostess's husband.

'Yes. But I—I'm probably leaving soon,' Marigold added, suddenly taking that momentous

decision in her stride. She didn't allow herself time to think about it. She only sensed, in a

moment of confused illumination, that this cutting of the knot would at last remove the dreaded

necessity of seeing Lindley again, and, at the same time, might even separate her old life from

the new sufficiently to allow her to continue the perilous delight of being friendly with Stephanie

and Paul.

'Are you?' Stephanie looked at her doubtfully. 'What are you going to do? You're still going

to be in London, I hope.'

'Oh yes, It's just that—there's not much scope in my present job.'

'Can you do accounts and records and things, besides typing?'

'Yes. If they're not dreadfully complicated. Why?'

'We need someone terribly badly in my school. I wondered if there were any chance of your

—'

'Stephanie! How marvellous! Do you mean I might have the job—working with you? I'd

simply love it.'

'It wouldn't be actually working with me, because I'm with the children all day. But yes, we'd

see a good deal of each other, of course, and in a way we should be working together. What are

you being paid in this other place?'

'Sixteen pounds a week.'

'Hmm. I think I could get you that. It's pretty hard work. You'd have all the responsibility of

the office and records part.'

'I shouldn't mind that.' And Marigold, who had never before grasped eagerly at responsibility,

suddenly found that she wouldn't mind it. Something about Stephanie inspired confidence.

'Well, we'll talk about it more presently,' Stephanie said as she stood up to go. 'Would you

like to get up now? Or would you rather stay in bed?'

'No, no, I'll get up, of course,' Marigold assured her. 'Can't I come and help you with lunch or

something like that?'

'No. Everything's under way all right. But you can come down and talk to Paul, if you feel

like it. He's lazing away his morning very comfortably by a big fire and will be glad of your

company. He works so hard in the usual way that I like him to have a lazy day when he comes

here.'

Marigold wondered what it was that he worked at so hard, but Stephanie had already gone, so

she had to keep the question for a later occasion.

When she came downstairs she found Paul —as Stephanie had said she would lounging

comfortably in front of a big fire.

He got up as she came in and asked her with a smile how she had slept.

'Marvellously, of course.'

'Of course?'

'Worn out by dramatic adventures,' Marigold said lightly, 'and now safely under the care of a

perfect hostess.'

'Don't I play any part in this?' he wanted to know.

'Why, certainly. Without your help, I shouldn't be here at all.'

'No. Nor would you,' he agreed. And she noticed that the reflection appeared to afford him a

considerable amount of satisfaction. 'A good day's work on my part. Or rather, a good evening's

work.'

Marigold laughed, but she really wanted to get the subject away from her escapade at the

hotel, so she said father hastily:

'Stephanie says your day's work is usually a pretty hard one.'

'Meaning that I don't look much like it now?' he suggested with a lazy smile.

'I didn't mean that.'

'You might have with perfect reason,' he assured her. 'I've been doing nothing with the

greatest concentration and enjoyment for the last two hours. But, in the ordinary way—yes, I

suppose I work fairly hard.'

'What is your work?'

'I'm a research chemist.'

'Oh!' It didn't sound very glamorous, she thought.

'Stephanie tells me you may be going to work at her place,' he went on.

'Oh, yes.' Marigold looked up, her face alight with pleasure. 'I do hope I can.'

'So do I. You'd be good for each other.'

'Should we? At least—Stephanie would be good for anyone, of course. But I don't know how

I could be specially good for her.'

'Oh, yes. You're very real and human and warmhearted. Stephanie can do with that. She

hasn't had too good a time.'

Marigold looked back into the fire so that he shouldn't see that she was agitated. She knew,

of course, what that 'not having had a good time' meant. But she felt too over-whelmingly moved

and remorseful that he should so unhesitatingly credit her with kindly understanding and a warm

heart.

'I hope I deserve the flattering implication.'

Marigold spoke lightly to cover the fact that she was moved.

'Oh, yes,' he said, as though there could be no two opinions about that.

Marigold smiled and raised her eyebrows.

'Do you always make up your mind about people so quickly?'

He didn't answer that immediately, but gave her a very thoughtful look. Then he said, 'Nearly

always.' And somehow she felt reluctant to continue the discussion and was glad that Stephanie

came in a few minutes later.

It was a charming day after that. Over lunch Marigold's proposed change of job was

discussed at length, and she found the enthusiasm of the other two infectious.

What had seemed at first a reckless undertaking now appeared the only sensible course to

take, and she was as eager as Stephanie and Paul to discuss the best means of bringing about.

When she thought about it, she was aware of a sort of astonished wonder at the completeness

with which the depression of the last two years had dropped from her. And with it had gone most

of the fears and complications of the Lindley episode.

'One can't really change from one day to the next, like this,' she told herself incredulously.

But she felt very much like someone recovering from a bad illness which had culminated in fever

and delirium. Now all that was over. She saw the final stage of the illness for what it was at last,

and so she was free to get well and be happy again in a brightening world.

'It's lucky you live in North London,' Paul remarked as they sat round the fire after lunch,

sipping their excellent coffee. 'My flat's that side of Town too, and Stephanie will be looking for

something in the same district.'

'And it's convenient for the school too,' Stephanie added. 'We couldn't have arranged it

better.'

'Anyway, if it hadn't fitted in well, I should have moved,' Marigold said airily, as though half

a dozen alternatives offered—to all of which she could have adapted herself with equal ease. It

was almost intoxicating to find that one could be resourceful and confident after all.

'It is comfortable where you are?' Stephanie wanted to know.

And Marigold said, 'Oh, yes.' For, all at once, her flatlet was no longer the scene of lonely

solitude, but a place where one could entertain one's friends very pleasantly.

'You must come and see me there,' she added. To which both Stephanie and Paul said, 'Oh,

we will,' very promptly and heartily.

Even the necessity of an early departure after tea failed to lower Marigold's triumphantly

high spirits. After all, she would be seeing Stephanie again in less than a week—and for

immediate comfort she had the prospect of a drive with Paul. A prospect which she found

attractive in the extreme.

It was almost like being one of the family to have Paul bringing her case downstairs and Ste-

phanie giving her a friendly hug as she said: 'I'm so glad we've got to know each other.' 'I'm glad

too—much more glad than you can imagine,' Marigold returned with fervour.

Paul only smiled at this outburst of feminine feeling, but Marigold had the distinct

impression that he was very well satisfied with the new friendship too.

'Stay in the warm while I get out the car,' he said. 'And didn't you say something about sand-

wiches, Stephanie? She won't want to start scrambling round for a meal when she gets home to a

deserted flat.'

'Of course.' Stephanie rushed off into the kitchen. 'They're all ready,' she called in answer to

Marigold's protests. 'I've only got to pack them up.'

Paul went out to fetch the car from the garage, and for a moment Marigold was left alone in

the pleasant, firelit sitting-room.

For the first time, she could gaze her fill at the photograph on the side-table, and she did so

—with the strangest conflicting emotions.

Thirty-six hours ago her whole existence had centred round the original of that photograph.

Now he seemed the one element likely to upset the happy pattern of the future.

If only—

But it was no good lingering wistfully over those two futile words which cover so much, but

effect so little.

Outside she could hear the sound of the car on the gravel of the drive, and now of Paul going

back to close the garage door. There was the clink of china from the kitchen, and then, above

those more subdued sounds, the sharp ring of the telephone at her side.

As though she were indeed one of the family, Stephanie called out from the kitchen:

'Answer it, will you, Marigold dear? It's one of my neighbours who was going to ring. Tell

her I shan't be a moment.'

Marigold picked up the receiver and said, Hello.'

And quite unmistakably—so near that it seemed to be in her very ear, Lindley's voice said:

'Is that you, Stephanie?'

CHAPTER III

FO R a few seconds Marigold was so paralysed by the sound of that well-known voice that she

was literally unable to reply. Her first impulse was to clap the receiver back into place and thus

shut off the terrible connection.

Then—moved perhaps by instinctive self-reassurance—she tried to tell herself that she was

mistaken, that it was impossible to identify any voice positively by one short sentence. Which

indeed was true. While she hesitated the same voice came again, a trifle impatiently:

'Hello, hello. Are you there? Is that Mrs. Marne?'

'No-no,' Marigold heard herself say stiffly, 'this isn't Mrs. Marne. I—I'll call her. Who is it

speaking?'

To her own ears, her voice had not sounded much like itself, but it must have still held its

characteristic tone, because the reply came back immediately, sharpened by surprise and some-

thing not unlike alarm:

'Wait a minute! Who is that?'

She tried very hard to say casually, 'A friend of Mrs. Marne,' but the words refused to come,

and then, to her horror, he exclaimed sharply incredulously: 'Marigold! That isn't you, is it?'

Unreasoning panic overtook her at that moment, and without any attempt at a reply, she put

back the receiver. And at the same moment Stephanie came in from the kitchen, followed almost

immediately by Paul, in his overcoat and carrying his hat.

'Ready?' he enquired. And Stephanie said:

'Oh, who was it?'

'I don't know,' lied Marigold with a calmness which astonished herself. 'Whoever it was—

was cut off almost at once.'

'They'll ring again,' Stephanie said indifferently.

And then good-byes were said and she followed Paul out to the car.

Her heart was thumping, and she had a ridiculous desire to run. Somehow it seemed to her

that, before she could get safely away, that telephone must ring again and something be said

which would involve her in disaster. It was hard to breathe naturally or to converse calmly until

she was safely installed in the car and Paul had negotiated the bend in the short drive and they

were out on the road Now if the telephone bell rang, Stephanie would have to reply herself—and

Lindley would hardly ask her any questions about 'Marigold.

The drive proved shorter than she had expected, and Paul was content to leave pleasant

silences between the casual, friendly remarks they made to each other. She was glad of that, and

though she dared not allow herself to pursue the train of her thoughts very far, it was a relief not

to have to keep one's attention on continual conversation.

When they finally reached her flat, he got out of the car and stood on the pavement beside

her, holding her hand in a warm grasp as he said good-bye. He had already refused to come in,

saying that he must get back to his own place, where he was expecting a colleague some time

during the evening.

'When do I see you again?' he wanted to know.

'Oh, as soon as Stephanie—' she began.

'No,' he said, and she could see that he was smiling. 'No—before Stephanie comes. May I

take you out to dinner one evening?'

'I'd love it.' Her voice trembled slightly, perhaps because that telephone call had sharpened

a l l her apprehensions once more—perhaps for some other reason.

H e , at any rate, evidently sensed no hint of alarm, because he said, 'Wednesday, then?' in his

most even and friendly tone. 'I'll fetch you from your- office, shall I?'

No, I—don't think that would do.' She vetoed the idea hastily, with a confused notion that

some horrid coincidence might send Lindley to t he office a t the same time.

Is your employer such a dragon, then?' He was amused, she saw. 'No followers allowed, eh?

Where shall I meet you then? The entrance to t he Gloria Grill at half-past six?'

'Yes,' Marigold agreed with relief, for she could not remember ever associating Lindley w i th

the Gloria. 'Yes, that will do splendidly. I'll be there at half-past six.'

And so it was arranged, and Marigold went in to her flat with hope and fear, happiness and

dismay mingling in the most exciting and agitati ng state of mind she had ever known.

Until now she had had some vague idea that, as soon as she was alone, she would be able to

consider the events of the past two days in a calm and judicial manner and then somehow

discover some course of action which would lead her safely through the complications which—

she- realised quite clearly—her own conduct had brought upon her.

But nothing of the sort happened, of course. When it came to the point, she was quite as

unable to decide on the wisdom or otherwise of her decisions in the privacy of her own flat as

she had been with Paul and Stephanie in the same room. It was no good. She must just go on,

and trust to luck somehow cutting her loose from the Lindley entanglement and leaving her free

to be happy in the friendship of Stephanie and Paul. Or rather, was it not perhaps 'of Paul and

Stephanie'?

Going to the office next morning seemed flat and uninspiring in the extreme. There was

something positively ridiculous about invoices and letters and accounts when one had been

living high drama in person. But, because there is a ruthless inevitability about day-to-day

routine, Marigold presently found that she was giving her attention to her work, and apart from

the not very pleasant task of giving in her notice the day was uneventful.

That didn't preclude Marigold's suffering the most sickening thumps of the heart every time

the door into the outer office opened, nor did it prevent her from spoiling any moments of leisure

she had by imagining sensational and dreadful scenes in which Lindley came in and demanded

explanations of her extraordinary behaviour at t he hotel.

She wondered now how she had ever supposed she could go on working in this office, even

without the inducement to change which had come from Stephanie's offer. Every hour of the day

was fraught with anxiety lest Lindley should come, and she found herself literally praying that,

for one week at least, it should seem to him that the only dignified thing to do was to take his

conge and keep out of the way of his latest 'weekend girl.'

After that week, he might do as he pleased. Marigold would be gone, and, if he sought her

out at all, it would be at her own flat, where she felt she could handle the situation much more

easily.

Monday and Tuesday passed in safety and what might be called comparative peace. And, by

the time Wednesday came, Marigold's thoughts were sufficiently occupied with the delightful

evening prospect for her to have other things to concern her besides the question of whether or

not Lindley might choose to appear at the office.

It was already getting late in the afternoon when the office boy—whose cheekiness to the

office staff was equalled only by the unnatural fervour of his respect when face to face with the

head of the firm—bounced into Marigold's office and enquired:

'Boss in?'

'Yes, he's in.' Marigold glanced up from her work. 'Who wants him?'

'Mr. Marne.'

'Mr.——Oh!'

'No. Not Mr. Oh,' retorted the office boy who, in the manner of his kind, fancied himself as a

wit. 'Mr. Marne. Elderly film-star-looking gent who writes the books.'

Even at that moment, Marigold found herself wondering how Lindley would have relished

the description of himself as 'elderly.' But she simply said coldly:

'I know who you mean. I'll see if Mr. Foster's free.'

Walking a trifle unsteadily because her legs felt queer, she crossed the room and opened her

employer's door.

'Mr. Marne's here, Mr. Foster. Can you see him?'

Back came the very reply she most dreaded:

'Of course, of course. Ask him to wait five minutes. I've a couple of phone calls to make, hu t

I shan't be long.'

She turned back to face the office boy, who was now looking very smart and alert, just in

case he should be in the direct line of vision from Mr. Foster's desk. She longed to suggest that

the unwelcome caller should wait in the outside office. But that would be an unheard-of idea.

There was only one thing to say.

'Show him in here, Tony. Mr. Foster will be free in five minutes.'

Tony departed—to return almost immediately, ushering in the one person in the world whom

Marigold least wanted to see.

As the door closed once more on Tony's leisurely departure, Lindley came forward two or

three quick steps into the room and stood towering over Marigold as she sat at her desk regard-

ing him a little blankly.

'Mari, where on earth have you been?' He spoke rapidly—as nearly agitated as she had ever

seen him—but he kept his voice low. 'What happened to you, child? Why did you play me such a

trick? I've been waiting every day to hear from you.'

'It wasn't—a trick.' Unsuccessfully she struggled against the conviction that it was she who

was to blame. 'I just—changed my mind. I'm terribly sorry, Lindley. I—I couldn't do it, that's all.'

'But why didn't you tell me? What was the idea—slipping away like that without a word?'

'I—I can't really explain.' That was true enough! 'Please, you must understand. I'm not —not

made for that sort of thing, Lindley. I'm not a—weekend girl. It just came over me —what I was

doing, I mean. I came to my senses, if you like to put it that way. And I—I had to get away.'

She was aware that this breathless, half-apologetic rush of words was not at all the cool and

dignified speech which she had intended to make him. But it was all that she could manage —

and, rather surprisingly, it certainly did not have the effect of making him angry.

He looked at her in that half-amused, half-tender way which imparted such a charmingly

quizzical expression to his worldly, good-looking face.

'My dear, I hardly know what to say to you. If you changed your mind—well, you changed

your mind. You had only to tell me so, you know.'

Every instinct she possessed told her that was not so—that, on the contrary, there would have

been a passionate, agitating argument in which she would almost certainly have been worsted.

Hut when he stated the fact so simply and ruefully—made his protest with that charming,

affectionate air—she felt her defences crumbling. Her certainty that he was an unprincipled

philanderer was no longer a certainty—only an uneasy suspicion which, in that moment, she

would gladly have had proved wrong.

It was with an actual physical effort that she managed to look away from those bright,

smiling eyes which regarded her so affectionately. Surely she had had her lesson! Surely he was

no longer able to charm her.

'I'm sorry.' She wished she could stop saying that. 'There isn't really anything more to say. I

didn't want to stay and—and I came away.'

She hoped that didn't sound quite so lame to him as it did to her.

'Well, Mari, how did you manage it?' Those smiling, puzzled eyes were a trifle more

watchful now. Or was that her imagination?

'I just—slipped out of the hotel and—and went to the station.'

'But there was no train.'

He would know that, of course! She was silly to have said that.

'Well then, if you must know, I—I got a lift.'

'What, all the way to London?'

'Yes.' She said that more defiantly, because that lie at least she intended to stick to.

'To your flat?'

'Of—of course.'

'You little liar,' he said amusedly. 'I telephoned your flat twice the next morning, but there

was no answer.'

Marigold bit her lip, and wished her breath wouldn't come quite so fast. For a second she

toyed with the idea of insisting that she had left her flat early on Sunday morning and been out

all day. But it was improbable, after what had happened.

And then, before she could decide what to say, he spoke again.

'You didn't go home, Mari, did you? And I'm wondering just where you did go. Not'—he

paused slightly—'not by any chance to my wife's house, I suppose?'

For a nightmare second, her throat really seemed to close. And then suddenly, Mr. Foster, in

the unusual role of guardian angel, opened his door and came forward into the room, exclaiming

cordially:

'Glad to see you, Marne. Glad to see you. Come along in and have a chat.'

So Lindley—forced to conceal whatever his feelings might be—went in to have his chat, and

Marigold, almost faint with relief, tapped out a few shaky lines on her typewriter and then sud-

denly decided that she must go home. It was at least a quarter of an hour before she was due to

do so, but her letters were already sealed and stamped ready for the post, and unless Mr. Foster

should unfortunately need her for anything urgent, her absence would not be noticed by anyone

other than Tony.

Any risk in connection with her employer, she decided, was preferable to the risk of being

there when Lindley came out from that room, with the possibility of being able to press his

questions further.

Hastily pulling on her hat and coat, she gave her nose a perfunctory dab with her powder-

puff and went as quietly and unobtrusively as she could from the office.

Tony looked up interestedly as she passed, and enquired hopefully:

'Is the clock slow?'

'No,' Marigold said. 'I'm leaving early.'

And without further explanation, she left the building.

It was early yet for her appointment with Paul but, with nowhere else to go, Marigold made

her way to the Gloria and, in the rose-and-silver magnificence of one of its palatial dressing-

rooms, she made herself as attractive as possible for her meeting.

As she surveyed the final result in one of the shining mirrors, it struck her that less than a

week ago it would have been unthinkable that she should be doing this for anyone but Lindley.

The very hat she was wearing had been bought with the object of bringing admiration to his eyes.

Now she felt she never wanted him to look at her again—admiringly or otherwise.

But if Paul should find her charming —Ah, well, that was rather a different matter.

When she was ready she went and sat in the lounge.

In spite of the terrible fright of an hour ago, Marigold felt her spirits rising. The first difficult

encounter with Lindley was over, and the short time which would elapse before he left the

country was unlikely to furnish an opportunity for anything really disastrous. By the time he

returned

Oh, well, by the time he returned almost anything might have happened. And meanwhile,

there was the great revolving door of the Gloria lurking for the fiftieth time—to admit Paul, who

stood there for a moment, his eyes narrowed against the light in that characteristic way of his.

He saw her immediately and came over to her.

'Hallo. Let's go and find something to eat.' He put his hand round her arm in a way entirely

different from Lindley's manner of touching her. And they went into the Grill Room, where a

corner table had been reserved for them.

He teased her almost affectionately over the ordering of the meal and then, when that was

settled, he leant his arms on the table and smiled straight at her, as though she were very good to

look at and he were very lucky to be doing the looking. She thought she had seldom enjoyed any

scrutiny more.

'You're even prettier than I remembered,' he told her.

'Oh—am I?' She was faintly but agreeably put out, and not quite able to meet his laughing,

admiring gaze. 'Are you always as frank when you take a girl out to dinner? Or is this your

standard opening?'

'Of course not. Haven't other men told you how pretty you are?'

'N—not often.' She thought of some of Lindley's more practised compliments and felt

uncomfortable.

'Well, never mind. They will,' he declared. And then, evidently under the impression that it

was he—and not her own recollections—which embarrassed her, he changed the subject. 'Ste-

phanie wants to know how you stand about the job. She sent her love and asked me to tell you

that she's fixed things all right at her end. You can start any time next week if you're free to do

so.'

'Oh, how sweet of her!' At once Marigold was smiling and excited. 'Yes, it's all right with

me. I gave notice on Monday.'

'Are you very glad to be leaving?'

'Not specially.' She was slightly surprised. 'Not terribly relieved or anything like that, you

know. I quite like the job, as jobs go. But I'm very glad to be going to work with Stephanie

instead.'

'Yes, of course. I just thought——'

'What did you think?' She glanced up quickly.

'Oh, perhaps it was imagination. I somehow had the impression that you were desperately

thankful to be getting away, that there was something—or someone—there who frightened you

or worried you.'

'Oh, n-no. No, not at all.' Marigold's mouth suddenly felt strangely dry.

'Sure?' He smiled at her. 'If there's anyone there who needs some straight speaking on your

behalf, I'm quite prepared to do it for you.'

'Oh, Paul!' Impulsively she put her hand over his as it lay on the table. 'You are so good and

kind. I don't deserve it.'

'Not deserve it! Don't be absurd.' He turned his hand and clasped hers warmly. 'Of course you

do. You've had a rotten break the last year or two, and I'—for a moment his gaze wavered and he

looked down at their clasped hands—'I don't want you to feel alone any more, or that there's

anything you have to put up with just because you haven't got a family.'

'Paul, it is nice of you.' She laughed, not quite steadily. 'But I am old enough to look after

myself, you know. You needn't worry.'

'No, you're not old enough to look after yourself. Some girls can quite often do with someone

around to do the looking after for them. Don't forget about your uncle, for one occasion,' he

added with a grin.

'My uncle?'

'Yes, of course. The weekending one who went drinking in the bar.'

'Oh—oh, yes. Of course.' She tried to look as though she had not completely forgotten the

uncle's existence for one moment.

'Now I come to think of it, I'm sorry I didn't go down and give him a piece of my mind.'

'I'm glad you didn't,' Marigold said with the most genuine fervour.

'Well, I was thinking rather hard about something else at the time,' he admitted.

'About the tiresomeness of having some strange girl plant herself upon you, to wit.'

'Not at all!' He repudiated that with some indignation.

'Oh, Paul!' She laughed at him. 'You were pretty fed up about it. I could see you were—and I

don't blame you.'

'I wasn't. I was thinking hard about something else. Something that was worrying me.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.' She was only half convinced, but she looked at him with sympathy as well as

amusement. 'What were you worrying about? Whether your newest experiment would go

wrong?'

'No.' He grinned, but became serious again almost immediately. 'I was worried about Ste-

phanie, as a matter of fact.'

'Were you? Why?' She was as serious as he now.

'Well—' Paul hesitated. Then he went on rather slowly: 'I don't know how much she told you,

but I think you know she has a packet of trouble in that husband of hers.'

'Y—yes.'

'She wouldn't complain about it much herself, but he really needs a darned hard kick in that

part of his anatomy made for the purpose.'

'D—does he?' Marigold hated the turn the conversation had taken, and found it impossible to

do anything but murmur short replies and leave long silences.

In the middle of this one he looked up suddenly, as though breaking off in his train of

thought, and said:

'Oddly enough, your firm publish his books.'

'I know. I—told Stephanie so.'

'So you did. I remember—she mentioned it. I dare say you've even seen him come into the

office some time. Good-looking chap in a not so-young-as-he-was way.'

'I think—I've seen—him.'

'They've been married a good many years now, but it was always the same. I don't think I'd

ever have thought anyone quite good enough for Stephanie, but certainly that cad wasn't.'

'You're—very fond of Stephanie, aren't you?' Marigold said, because one had to say some-

thing.

'Yes, of course. I've known her since we were young enough to yell over the same packet of

acid drops, and I've never known a straighter or more decent girl. I was abroad when she married

Marne, and by the time I came home I don't think she was in much doubt about what she'd taken

on.'

Marigold found herself wondering, with painful interest, if there had been something very

personal in Paul's disappointment at finding Stephanie married at all—quite apart from any

question of the type of man she had married. But that, of course, was the kind of question one

had to leave unasked.

'Is it—is it the kind of situation that isn't very likely to mend?' she asked at last, because one

had to say something.

'Oh, yes. Quite hopeless. Personally, I always thought so, but naturally Stephanie took much

longer to come to the same conclusion. I just kept out of things as much as possible in those

days. I shouldn't have been able to keep my temper, and there's no point in being had up for

assault and battery if it isn't going to benefit anyone. I managed to avoid him almost entirely and

didn't even see much of Stephanie, because it's only fair, I suppose, to give even a hopeless case

all the chance there is. I shouldn't have been able to hide what I really thought and that might

have influenced her a bit.'

'That was very fair-minded of you, Paul.'

'We-ell—' He smiled doubtfully. 'The fact is that the understanding friend and understanding

relation is usually nothing but a curse. Sympathetic chit-chat is about as safe as a bottle of

prussic acid with the cork out. My view is that if you really care about a person you should keep

out of the way until you're invited to be of practical help—and then weigh in with all you've got.'

Marigold laughed, but she looked at him with approving eyes.

'And then I suppose the time came when you could be of practical help?'

'Yes. She told me all about it in the end, of course. When she'd decided there was nothing to

save from the wreck, I mean. He'd been on some so-called publicity work. Scouting round the

country and enjoying himself in his own particular way in between whiles. He was quite willing

to turn up at Stephanie's place when he had nothing more agreeable on hand. But naturally no

one with any pride and decency could stand for that arrangement.'

Marigold cleared her throat and said, 'Naturally not,' in a rather stiff little voice.

Then, as Paul seemed absorbed in his own thoughts for the moment, she enquired almost

timidly: 'What happened then? Where did you come into it?'

'Well, Marigold, we talked the whole thing over, and she finally agreed that the only thing

was to divorce him. There was evidence enough, if one cared to collect it.'

'Y-yes?' An inexplicable chill began to crawl down Marigold's spine.

'That was where I came in. Stephanie isn't the kind of girl who'd be any good hunting up

hotel evidence and that sort of thing, you know.'

Marigold passed the tip of her tongue over completely dry lips.

'N-no, I shouldn't imagine she would be.'

'So I took that on,' he explained rather earnestly. 'I know this sounds a bit melodramatic, but

he was at that hotel where I met you, Marigold. I'd had wind that he was going down there with

some girl he'd picked up. So I took myself off there too.'

'That was why you were there?'

Marigold suddenly found that she knew exactly what was meant by one's hair rising on one's

head.

'Um-hm. He came down there as bold as brass. Actually registered his poisonous little girl-

friend as his wife, too. I had a look at the hotel register. It's perfectly plain for anyone to see. Oh

yes'—he gave an angry little laugh—'I think we've got him this time. I don't know who the girl

was, but that doesn't matter, of course. She's just the useful co-respondent, as far as we're

concerned.'

CHAPTER IV

W ITH a violent physical effort Marigold fixed her mind on the fact that Paul was still speaking.

Somehow she must give an impression of intelligent attention.

She smiled, she looked shocked or sympathetic as the occasion demanded. She even

murmured noncommittal comments from time to time.

But it was all done in a queer, detached sort of way. All of her which really mattered was

grappling, panic-stricken, with the information he had so coolly let fall.

Even now she could hardly take it in.

She was to be the co-respondent in a divorce suit. And the suit would be brought by

Stephanie against Lindley. While Lindley's wife had remained an anonymous and shadowy

figure, she had been able to convince herself that she was willing to figure in a divorce suit, if

that were the price of happiness with him. Now the whole thing seemed a ghastly and

ignominious tangle—a sordid business in which one would loose everything worth holding.

That ill-fated weekend trip—which now seemed not only wicked but ridiculous as well —

was not to be allowed to sink into blessed oblivion. It was, on the contrary, to dog her relent-

lessly, spoiling everything which had promised to make life so sweet.

Stephanie, whose friendship she so eagerly desired and valued, would regard her with aston-

ished disgust and reproach, while Paul—Paul who looked at her with such heart-warming

kindness and admiration—would have nothing for her but contempt and loathing.

Indeed, had he not already expressed himself all too clearly?

The poisonous little girl-friend! The useful correspondent!

Marigold felt so sick that she hardly knew how to go on eating. And there must have been

something in her expression at last which betrayed her wretched preoccupation, because he broke

off suddenly in the middle of what he was saying and exclaimed:

'But it's too bad to worry you with all this. Sorry, Marigold. I'm afraid my temper got the

better of my tongue.'

'It's quite all right! I don't at all mind your talking to me about it and—and saying what you

think.' She spoke with eager emphasis. 'I was just thinking rather hard about what you'd said.

About the divorce, I mean. Suppose —suppose, for instance, that you can't trace this girl who

stayed at the hotel with Lind—with Stephanie's husband.'

'It doesn't matter.' Paul filled up her glass for her, and she mechanically drank from it, hoping

he didn't notice that her teeth chattered slightly against the rim.

'What—do you mean—"It doesn't matter"?'

'Why, the actual identity of the girl isn't essential to the case, you know. There's the hotel

register to prove that he stayed there with some woman as his wife—same room number and

everything. And there are Stephanie and myself to prove it wasn't his real wife.'

'I—see.' She leant her elbow on the table and her forehead on her hand, pretending to be deep

in thought. She felt she could not look at him and hide the dawning relief. Besides, she actually

felt queerly faint for a moment.

A scared and desperate hope was struggling to life within her. Perhaps, even now-—by some

blessed miracle—they need not know! It was too much—far too much—to count on in this

moment. But the glimmer of hope was there.

'You mustn't let it weigh on you like that,

Marigold,' Paul's voice said gently just then. 'I wouldn't have told you if I'd thought it would

affect you like that. It's terribly sweet of you to mind so much on Stephanie's behalf. But, believe

me, though no one likes the idea of going through the divorce court, it's the best thing for

Stephanie's happiness that's happened for many a long day.'

'Yes,' Marigold agreed in a very subdued tone. 'Yes, I'm sure you're right.' And then, as

though she couldn't help it: 'Do you think he will make any objection?'

'Who, Lindley?'

She nodded, her eyes on his face and her expression more anxious than she could have

wished.

'I don't really know, Marigold.' He considered the idea thoughtfully. 'I don't think he has

much feeling for Stephanie—even so far as his type has feelings at all. But it's very convenient

for that sort of man to be married.'

'Convenient? Why?' Marigold demanded sharply.

'Why, you see, it's a wonderful safeguard against having to marry anyone else.' Paul smiled

with a sort of good-natured cynicism. 'You don't know Stephanie's husband, but he was cast by

Nature for the role of "the man who married the wrong woman." I'm sure it goes down

wonderfully with almost any little fool he wants to dazzle. And the beauty of it is that he did

marry the wrong woman. Only it's she who did the paying, not he. Your born philanderer will

always find a dozen occasions when it's useful to be able to say "If it were not for my wife——" '

'I see,' Marigold said slowly. 'I quite—see.' And if she had never felt ashamed before, she

would have felt it then.

In spite of everything, the rest of the evening was enchanting. At first Marigold thought her

anxiety and agitation must surely spoil everything. But after a while, a sort of reckless happiness

took possession of her—a determination to enjoy every moment of this evening with Paul, even

if there were never another one like it.

Something in his own mood seemed to match hers. Or perhaps it was just that, like all people

who live dangerous lives—and she remembered with a stab of fear that the description fitted him

exactly—he knew perfectly how to enjoy the present without worrying too much about the

future.

Afterwards it was difficult to remember just what it was that had made the evening so memo-

rable—apart, of course, from the grim significance of its early disclosure. But long after Paul had

taken her home and said a friendly—even affectionate—good-night to her, Marigold sat before

her gas-fire, ready for bed, but in her dressing-gown, thinking over the hours with him.

Measured beside the worldly, polished charm of Lindley, he could hardly be rated as over-

whelmingly attractive. And yet just to be with him meant such happiness and content that

Marigold sat dreaming of the way he smiled, the way he spoke, the way he laughed, until the

sudden recollection of the danger in which she stood set her desperately seeking in her troubled

mind for safeguards and reassurances.

One thing was quite certain. A divorce suit would be brought against Lindley and, quite

inescapably, she herself—whether anonymously or by name—would have her place in it.

On the side of possible security, she might count the fact that probably all parties wanted it

carried through as impersonally as possible. There were not likely to be 'scenes,' with reproaches,

explanations and discussions, in which her name might be disclosed by accident.

But, on the other hand, it seemed fantastically impossible that she could go through the next

few months as Stephanie's friend, and, no doubt, to a certain extent her confidante, without once

letting slip the fact that she was the unknown correspondent who was making the divorce

possible.

'It isn't as though one knows about these dreadful things until one's in it up to the neck,'

thought Marigold distractedly. 'I've only the vaguest idea of how a divorce suit is conducted. I

may suddenly find myself face to face with exposure, simply because I don't know what

precaution to take.'

And then she wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, if it would not be simpler to admit

herself beaten and just cut adrift from the whole situation by going right away somewhere where

Paul and Stephanie could not trace her.

But the practical difficulties of such a course seemed insurmountable, as soon as she began to

consider them seriously, if reluctantly. Besides, nearly every instinct except fear argued

passionately on the other side. To relinquish Stephanie—to relinquish Paul—without fighting

every inch of the way had now become unthinkable.

Suppose she did somehow manage to come through this nerve-racking ordeal without

discovery—wouldn't that be worth almost anything? She could even feel that she had somehow

lived in anxiety and misery for her folly and had some sort of right to happiness. After all, it had

amounted to no more than folly in the end. Indeed, the curious thing was that no real grounds for

a divorce existed, if one came to think of it!

At that point, the complications became too much for Marigold, and she went to bed, telling

herself that she must make her real decision later. But she knew in her heart that her decision was

made. She would go on with this thing, and hold on to her happiness until it was torn from her by

main force.

The rest of her week in Mr. Foster's office passed uneventfully. If Lindley felt that their

conversation had been interrupted at an untimely moment, at least he made no attempt to con-

tinue it in office hours.

Marigold had a few free days in between leaving her work at the office and going to her new

job at the nursery school. But, without quite arguing out the matter to herself, she spent as much

time as possible away from home. After all, Lindley naturally knew where she lived —and it was

as well not to invite fresh difficulties.

On one of her free days, at Stephanie's suggestion, she went to the big old-fashioned house

where the school had been opened, and was taken round the place as a visitor.

The house, standing in its own somewhat dilapidated grounds, had probably been the home

of some prosperous City man thirty or forty years before. The rooms were big and lofty, with the

exception of the kitchen regions, which, according to the ideas of those days, had naturally been

planned with every disregard for comfort and convenience, and then been tucked away in the

basement.

'We've had to write off most of the kitchen regions as unusable,' Stephanie explained. 'So

we've had outhouses built on at the back for cooking and washing, and there's nothing much in

the basement now except the boiler.'

'All your own arrangement?' Marigold enquired, and, as Stephanie nodded: 'You're really a

very practical person and good organiser, aren't you?'

'Oh, I don't know.' Stephanie laughed. 'I have a lot of good advice and help from David

Trevlin. He's our doctor. He comes in twice a week—unless, of course, I want him for a special

case. Look, this will be your room. It's small, but it's nice.'

It was indeed nice, Marigold decided, as she looked with pleasure round the small, cosy

room, with its big window looking on the garden. The furniture was mostly old-fashioned and

had obviously been collected from more than one source, but it was attractively arranged, and a

bright wood fire added a pleasant touch.

'Would you like to have a look at the babies now?' Stephanie asked. 'They'll be having their

midday sleep, so they'll all be quiet and presentable.'

'Yes, of course. I'd love to.'

So Marigold was taken to a long, airy room, which ran the full length of the house from back

to front. Down each side of the room was a row of small camp-beds on which reposed children

varying in age from two to five, all of them in a state of angelic peace and quiet, almost too good

to be true.

'Oh, you don't have absolute babies?' asked Marigold in an awed whisper.

'Not at the moment. Though we're probably going to have a few later on in another part of the

house. These ones have simple lessons part of the time. At least, the older ones do.'

'I see.'

'I see you too,' remarked a husky little voice from the nearest bed. And Marigold turned to

find herself under the scrutiny of one extremely bright blue eye. The owner, a fat little boy of

about five, had the other eye tightly closed, presumably in deference to the fact that he was sup-

posed to be asleep.

Marigold very much wanted to laugh, but Stephanie said gravely:

'You should be asleep, Kevin.'

'I am, miss—half,' Kevin said and reluctantly closed the other eye.

Stephanie and Marigold then withdrew, Marigold remarking with a laugh, as soon as they

were safely outside the door:

'I'm going to love working here.'

'Oh, I expect you will,' Stephanie linked her arm in hers. 'I wouldn't do anything else for the

world.'

'Oh, you wouldn't, of course,' Marigold said. 'You're cut out for this sort of thing. In fact, you

ought to have a home and family of your——Oh, I'm so sorry. How clumsy and stupid of me!'

'No, it's all right, really. You needn't behave as though there's a death in the house, just

because I and my husband haven't made a success of things,' Stephanie assured her. 'Come on

into my room and let's talk. I've got a free half- hour.' And she took Marigold to a room on the

first floor, where the view of the garden and the general air of homeliness and comfort was much

the same as in her own room.

When they were seated either side of the fire, Stephanie said frankly:

'I don't mind talking about things, you know. At least, not to you. I kept it all bottled up for

years, particularly before Paul and I quite got to the point of discussing it. But now—oh, I sup-

pose I've really accepted things as they are, and there's a sort of relief in facing the worst and

deciding quite finally on what you're going to do.'

'Yes,' Marigold agreed, and her own private thoughts gave point to that. 'It's when you don't

know what on earth to do that you're so acutely miserable.'

Stephanie nodded, and for a moment there was silence. Then Marigold said, a little diffi-

dently:

'Paul says you've decided to divorce Lind —your husband.'

'Um-hm.' Stephanie stared thoughtfully into the fire. 'It isn't as though I haven't given things a

chance to right themselves. There does come u point when it's—oh, degrading to go on. Ami

then the best thing is a clean break.'

'You aren't—I mean, you don't sound as though there's any very deep feeling involved,'

Marigold ventured.

'No, I won't pretend there is now. At one time, of course, there was. But, to be quite frank, it

was the old case of marrying in haste, Marigold, and I've had a lot of time to repent,' Stephanie

said with a little grimace.

'I'm sorry, Stephanie.' Marigold spoke from the bottom of her heart. 'You're the kind of

person who should have a much fairer deal than that.'

'Oh, I don't know about that.' Stephanie smiled and shrugged slightly. 'Stupid mistakes

usually have to be paid for.'

'That's true.' Once more Marigold's own reflections made her speak with feeling. 'But I wish

there were—oh, something more for you to look forward to. You've got such a warm and rich

personality. It shouldn't all just be sidetracked on good works and that sort of thing.'

Stephanie laughed and flushed.

'I don't know that it's going to be—since you put it so kindly.' And then, as Marigold looked

enquiring—'I don't expect you'll be surprised to hear that there's someone a good deal more im-

portant than Lindley nowadays.'

Marigold gasped slightly. And then of course she saw.

'You mean—you'll marry again?'

'Um-hm. I don't want to talk about it yet, because there's something rather indecent in talking

about one husband before you're rid of the other, however unworthy he may be. But—well, don't

worry about me from that point of view.'

'I—won't,' Marigold said slowly. 'And I'm very glad, for your sake, Stephanie. Really glad.'

'I knew you would be. That's why I told you.' Stephanie smiled. 'And now I must send you

off. The children will be waking up soon and I've several things to do before then. Ring me up if

there's anything else you want to know, and I'll expect you here to-morrow morning.'

Marigold bade her good-bye and went downstairs, letting herself out quietly by the big front

door, in case any extra sound should awaken the young charges, of whom she was still con-

siderably in awe.

Out in the street once more, she made for the bus stop, but, on sudden impulse, she turned in

the opposite direction, so that she could walk across the Park and pick up her bus at another

point. It was a cold, grey day, not very inviting for walking, but Marigold felt suddenly an over-

whelming urge to be alone with her thoughts, and the idea of a crowded bus was hateful.

As she walked through the Park a sharp wind stirred the branches and blew down the very

last of the autumn leaves. Very few people were about, and by the time Marigold had walked a

few hundred yards she seemed almost alone in the world, the distant hum of the traffic serving

only to emphasise the stillness around her.

So that was it! And she had been too stupid and absorbed to realise what was staring her in

the face. It was partly because she had thought of Paul and Stephanie as really brother and sister

instead of—as was actually the case—no relation at all.

Now she realised the exact significance of what Paul had said about Stephanie's marriage

taking place while he was abroad, and of his coming home too late to do anything. And then his

keeping out of the way, in case of spoiling things—that was more understandable than ever now.

But when he had realised that her marriage had completely foundered on the rocks—well, when

he had said what was in his mind. And the result was that she had decided to divorce Lindley.

Marigold walked on rather slowly, telling herself now that she was truly glad to think that her

good friends would find happiness together. In an odd way, she smiled rather wryly to herself —

she would be providing the means for them to find that happiness.

Only an utterly mean-spirited person would feel anything but glad and happy to think that all

was to end so well for the two people who had been so kind to her. Of course she was glad that

Stephanie was to marry Paul. Of course she was glad that Paul was to marry

Marigold swallowed rather hard.

If anyone were silly enough to entertain hopes and dream dreams without any foundation —

well, they must expect to have a rude awakening.

Not that this was a rude awakening. And anyway, she'd hardly known Paul any time. Cer-

tainly not long enough——

And it was rather stupid to go walking in the Park on a bleak day like this. Naturally one felt

a bit depressed and miserable. If she had had any sense she would have jumped straight on her

butt and gone home, instead of wandering about the Park feeling sorry for herself, for no reason

whatever.

Here she was with a good job, good friends and more than a possibility of escaping from u

dreadful complication for which she had only herself to blame. She might well consider herself

to be extraordinarily lucky.

And, with this very sensible reflection, Mari gold took the shortest cut she could find back to

the main road again, bought an afternoon paper, and read it steadily all the way home in the bus.

She had just stepped inside the front door when the telephone, which stood in the hall and

reluctantly did duty for all the inmates of all the flatlets, shrilled loudly.

Marigold picked up the receiver and almost immediately Paul's voice sounded in her ear:

'Could I speak to Miss Turner, please?'

'Oh, Paul, I'm speaking.'

'Hello, Marigold!' He sounded amazingly pleased, considering she was only the friend of his

future wife. 'I hoped I'd catch you. What about a theatre tonight? It's your last twenty-four hours

of freedom, isn't it?'

'I hadn't thought of it that way,' Marigold sighed. 'But I'd love to come. That is'—she caught

herself up suddenly—'are you sure you and Stephanie wouldn't rather go on your own? You

don't really want a third party, do you?'

'Don't be absurd,' Paul retorted promptly. Anyway, Stephanie isn't coming. She's busy with

something else.'

'I'll call for you about six. That will give us lime to get something to eat before we go.

Agreed?'

'Agreed,' Marigold said, unable to contain her pleasure. And then she hung up the receiver

and ran upstairs to her room, so eager to be ready by the time he arrived that there was no

occasion to sit and ask herself whether she were being wise or foolish.

At six o'clock precisely Paul presented himself, and as Marigold came down the stairs to the

hall where he was waiting for her—looking up the stairway to watch her coming—she thought

she had never until that moment appreciated to the full how attractive he was. The well-set,

laughing eyes, the firm mouth and chin, the lazy, rather teasing smile which entirely belied the

real energy of his disposition

Ah well, Stephanie was a lucky woman. And no one had ever more truly merited luck, Mari-

gold reminded herself sharply, as Paul took her hand in his.

'I'm sorry Stephanie wasn't able to come too,' Marigold said, and in that moment she honestly

thought that was true.

'She'll come another time,' he assured her easily as they went out of the house together. 'She

phoned me this afternoon after you'd left the school and—'

'Oh, did she suggest your taking me out?' Marigold was not quite sure whether it was relief or

a sort of vague, unworthy disappointment which prompted that.

'Oh, no.' Paul smiled to himself. 'I do have some bright ideas all on my own, you know.'

Marigold laughed, but she felt slightly uncomfortable. She really very much wanted to ask

whether Stephanie even knew they were out together, and to be reassured that she did. But to ask

the question would immediately attach a ridiculous and unsuitable significance to it. So she said

instead:

'I suppose Stephanie told you how delighted I was with the school, and that I'm sure I'm

going to love working there.'

'Yes. She seemed to think you and she were going to work together splendidly. I believe Ste-

phanie has some sort of idea that her run of bad luck is over, and that everything will go smooth-

ly for her from now on. I don't know whether you're her mascot or something.' And he grinned at

Marigold mischievously.

'I'd like to be,' Marigold said, thinking how odd this turn of the conversation had become.

'Anyway, I hope she's right about everything going well now. I'm sure she's right,' she added

earnestly.

She wondered whether she might say something tactful at this point about how glad she was

to hear that her two good friends were going to be happy together. But somehow that seemed a

little premature, considering that the proceedings for the necessary divorce which must come

first had not even been begun.

The play he took her to was not an unmixed pleasure to Marigold. The acting was excellent,

the theme absorbing, but it centred round a situation in which the heroine was driven by circum-

stances to deceive the man she loved. And although, of course, one could not think of an exact

parallel in one's own life—well, an uneasy conscience certainly did seem to provide an

extraordinary number of circumstances in which one felt uncomfortable and saw a reflection of

oneself.

Afterwards they walked part of the way home, through a cold, clear, moonlit night which

had, most unexpectedly, succeeded the misty day.

'Did you enjoy it?' Paul asked anxiously, perhaps disquieted by her silence.

'Yes. Very much, of course.' It was she who slipped her arm into his that time, and immedi-

ately received a warm pressure of her hand.

'I thought you seemed rather quiet.'

'I was only thinking.' That was true enough. 'I was wondering what I should have done in that

girl's place.'

'Um? Oh, she'd have done much better to have been frank in the first place,' Paul declared

with easy assurance. 'Never does to complicate life with a string of secrets and

misunderstandings between people who are fond of each other.'

'Sometimes it can't be helped.'

'Nonsense, Marigold. It's always best to have the truth out and take what's coming to you.'

'Suppose one loses everything that matters by doing that? Suppose in this case that the girl

had just lost her husband?'

'She wouldn't have. There'd have been an awful flare-up, and everyone would have thought

they'd never be happy again. And then ordinary, everyday life would have reasserted itself, and

somehow they would have patched things up because they were necessary to each other.' Paul

was quite positive, and Marigold found herself almost amusedly envying his capacity for

reducing life to simple terms.

'Well, perhaps in this particular case,' she conceded doubtfully. 'Because they were necessary

to each other. But there are other circumstances where I could imagine '

'But why imagine them? You sound as though you're making yourself quite miserable about

it, and it's only a theoretical problem,' Paul protested with a laugh.

'All right.' She laughed slightly too, though she felt singularly little amusement when she

reflected that the problem was far from being purely theoretical. 'Life presents itself in pretty

simple terms to you, doesn't it, Paul?' she said slowly.

'Meaning that I'm a simple soul without much sensitive perception?' he suggested without

rancour.

'No! Of course not. I only meant that I think you see right and wrong nearly as clearly as

black and white, so you make your decisions without much hesitation. You aren't troubled by —

well, what one might call the shades of grey.'

'I suppose not.' He considered that reflectively. 'I know the few things I couldn't forgive in

other people and I don't find any temptation to do them myself, if that's what you mean.

Otherwise, let other people be happy in their own weird way, and I'll be the same in mine, is my

motto.'

Marigold laughed irresistibly, deliberately rejecting the desire to ask what were the le things

he could not forgive either in himself o other people. Instead she said:

'No wonder Stephanie is so fond of you.'

'Why, Marigold'—he slowed down almost to standstill—'that's an extraordinarily nice thing

for you to say.'

Something in his tone sent Marigold's heart racing—racing frightenedly, and all at once tin

long, empty, moonlit street seemed to take on u strange quality of intimacy, as though they well

no longer in the open air, but alone in a room, shut away from all the rest of the world.

With a tremendous effort, she blurted out the only safe remark—the only saving remark in

the circumstances—which came to her mind.

'Yes, I think you suit her marvellously. I—I'm awfully glad about it. She told me this after-

noon.'

"Told you what?' He had stopped now, and turned so that he faced her, but because he had

not released her arm they were very close together.

'Why, that—that after she's got her divorce, YOU and she—I don't know why I didn't guess it

before. It was stupid of me, because of course you'd have to be in love with her. No one could

know her so well and not——'

'The deuce I should! You little cuckoo!' And suddenly he kissed her, and it seemed a

perfectly natural part of this extraordinary scene. Haven't you enough sense to know when a

man's in love with you, instead of packing him painstakingly on to someone else? I think

Stephanie's twenty-two-carat gold all through, but I'm not a bit in love with her.'

'But——' A sort of delicious horror engulfed Marigold, and she struggled against the over-

over whelming desire to cling to Paul and kiss him. 'But she thinks——'

'Who does? Stephanie?' Marigold nodded wordlessly. 'What does she think? Nothing about

my heart-breaking charm, I can assure you.

She's too much wrapped up in that doctor of hers, David Trevlin. It's he she's in love with and

going to marry, you absurd child. He'll suit her, if you like.'

'Oh!' Marigold gave a great gasp, in which astonishment and the most shameless relief were

equally mingled. 'I thought——'

'Yes, I know what you thought.' His arms were round her now and he was laughing down at

her, and if the scene had been a rose-garden in June instead of a London street in November it

could not have been more romantic. 'I know what you thought. You've just told me. You thought

I'd suit Stephanie marvellously, and you were awfully glad about it. You little liar! Just try to tell

me that again. There's only one girl I suit, and that's you, and the sooner you get used to that

idea, the better.'

CHAPTER V

JU S T for a moment Marigold allowed the sheer beauty and relief of the situation to engulf her.

She hid her face against Paul's shoulder—felt l he rough tweed of his coat against her cheek, and

beneath that the hard muscle that indicated such a satisfying strength.

He was not Stephanie's. He was hers. There was no barrier—no friendship which stood in the

way of her loving him. No qualm of conscience which must be studied in preference to the

simple, almost primitive desire to claim him as hers and to admit that she was his.

It was no longer necessary to pretend to herself or to him that she had nothing but a com-

fortable, friendly feeling towards another woman's future husband.

In that blissful second or two Marigold knew real happiness, and even Lindley was forgotten

in the exquisite enjoyment of that realisation.

And then Paul said, 'What is it, love? Aren't you ever going to speak to me again?'

She looked up then and he kissed her once more. Much more lingeringly this time and with a

significance that made her gasp and kiss him in return.

'That's better.' Paul gave a slightly relieved laugh. 'I began to wonder if there were real

something wrong.' And when he said that she remembered. Remembered that life, which had

seemed so beautifully simple for a few moments, was really more horribly complicated than

ever.

She remembered Lindley then, and that Stephanie was going to divorce him—because of that

poisonous little girl-friend, who might perhaps remain anonymous, but who in any case was the

object of Paul's utter loathing and con tempt. And she was the poisonous little girl friend, and she

was here in Paul's arms, in the middle of a deserted street, while a beneficent moon went sailing

in and out of the clouds, pro viding all the light which was necessary for this romantic scene.

Marigold moved sharply, as though she would have withdrawn from his embrace.

'What's the matter?' He bent his head down to hers at once, and she could see the tender,

possessive way he smiled at her, even in the uncertain moonlight.

'Paul, it's imposs—— I mean, you must give me—some time. I haven't even thought about

it.' 'Then think about it now.' 'I can't. There's so much to consider.' 'There's only one thing. Do

you love me?'

'That isn't the only thing.'

'Do you love me?'

'Paul, I can't——'

'Do you love me?'

'Yes, of course. But I——'

'Then be quiet about the rest. There's nothing else that matters.' And he kissed her almost

roughly.

Again she yielded to the supreme happiness of the moment, and again Lindley and all that he

implied was wiped from her mind. She heard Paul give a satisfied little laugh. Then they were

walking on again slowly together, he with his arm round her, and he was saying:

'What else is there to talk about except that we love each other? There's a funny little streak

of cowardice in you, Marigold. I don't know why. But anyway, it doesn't matter, because I'm

never going to let you be afraid about anything again. You're a little bit afraid about life itself,

aren't you? That was why you wanted time to think over something you knew the answer to the

moment I kissed you. There wasn't any real reason why you shouldn't own that you loved me,

was there?'

And Marigold, dazzled and bewitched, said, 'No.'

'You hadn't got used to the idea that it was all right about Stephanie. You'd decided to

sacrifice yourself for what you thought was Stephanie's happiness. And then suddenly you found

there wasn't any need for that and you could be happy. That was it, wasn't it?'

And because that was at least half the truth, Marigold said, 'Yes,' and hoped he would go on

talking for ever about their happiness and the ease with which they could attain it, so that she

need never think again of the dangers that lurked round the very next corner, and the fact that

one false step on this giddy and glorious tight-rope could mean disaster.

Sometimes she hardly paid any attention to the actual words he was saying. The feel of Inarm

around her and the sound of his deep, tender, confident voice were all that were necessary to

make her happy. There would come the moment when she had to wake up, of course, but for the

present she was wandering through a maze of happiness, where nothing had the sharpness of

reality and so nothing had the power to hurt or frighten her.

And then the world of realities touched her once more, because he said coolly -and determin-

edly:

'When are you going to marry me?'

'Oh, Paul——' He couldn't know of course what a train of terrible and delicious possibilities

that started. 'Do I have to decide that right away too?'

'Of course you do.' He laughed, and kissed the lip of her ear teasingly. 'Do you think I'm

going to let you believe you've imagined all this tomorrow morning?'

'I shouldn't think that, anyway,' she said soberly.

'Well, then, perhaps I should. I feel half bewitched as it is, and I want to tie my happiness

down to dates and times, and then perhaps I'll believe it. Is a fortnight time enough?'

'For—for what?'

'To get ready to marry me, of course.'

'Paul, we can't do things like that!'

'Who's to stop us?'

She felt like saying, 'Lindley,' hysterically, but she choked that back and said instead:

'A fortnight will be plenty of time. A week would do, if you like it best that way.'

And he caught her close and held her without a word. Only she knew he was more deeply

moved than he had power to say. And presently he took off his signet ring and put it on her

finger, and said huskily:

'I'll get you something better tomorrow, love. But that's just to show you're mine—now and

always.'

They walked the last five minutes of their way in silence, but it was the silence of content

and understanding. Then he said good-night to her and she went into the house, with the magic

of the last hour like a golden shield between her and reality.

The peculiar mood of confidence—almost of exaltation—stayed with her until she was in her

own room. Then, perhaps because its familiar features spoke so strongly of other days, the chill

of remembered, inescapable facts began to grow upon her.

Marigold sat down on the side of her bed and gazed into the rigid, unanswering brightness of

her gas fire. One could not make pictures in a gas fire. One could hardly dream dreams before it.

There was something ruthlessly prosaic about it which recalled one to actual fact in a way it was

hard to avoid.

There was the fact that Paul loved her, but there was also the fact that she had so nearly

belonged to Lindley. There was the fact that she was to marry Paul in a week or two, but there

was also the fact that she was to be the correspondent in Stephanie's divorce suit in a month or

two. To what did all these facts add up? What was it she really should have done?

Perhaps if she had not been so completely taken by surprise she could have pretended firmly

and convincingly that Paul meant nothing to her—that she was terribly sorry, but he must look

elsewhere. And then, unhappy though he would have been at her refusal, he would perhaps have

got over it fairly soon when he knew there was no hope at all. And he might have been happy

with someone else eventually and never known that the girl he first loved was worthless. Wasn't

that perhaps what she should have done? Wouldn't that have given Paul his best chance of

happiness?

Or should she really have told him the truth? In that moment when he had asked her what

was the matter, ought she not to have found the courage to say, 'I'm not a bit as you imagine. I'm

the girl who went away with Stephanie's cad of a husband for the weekend. Nothing really

happened, but I don't expect you to believe that, and anyway, it hardly matters because I went

with the intention of letting it happen.'

Was that what she ought to have said? Only, of course, she could never have found the

courage to do so. Paul was right. She was afraid of life. There was a streak of cowardice in her.

But he called it 'a little streak of cowardice' and spoke as though it were something endearing

instead of contemptible.

And now the moment for doing anything was past. She had said that she loved him. She

couldn't take that back. She had said she would marry him. She couldn't take that back. She had

to go on. Whatever the consequences to herself or to him, she had to go on.

Something of her earlier recklessness returned to her. As Paul had said, there was so little

time for everything. Who knew what might happen from day to day? One fact she had never

taken into consideration. Lindley must be on the point of going to America—or perhaps had

already gone. The divorce might be delayed beyond any time she had dared to hope for. That

meant disappointment for Stephanie, perhaps, but for herself it meant time—precious time—in

which to erect some sort of vague and powerful defence which she could not quite define to

herself, but which seemed at any rate possible, viewed at a distance.

If she and Paul had been married some while and had already built something of their happy

life together, she might even risk telling him the truth some day, and then she need never be

afraid of exposure again. What was it he had said about that play they had seen? Something

which had struck her as oddly comforting even at the time, when it hardly applied to themselves.

Yes, he said that everyone might think they could never be happy again, but when people

were necessary to each other, everyday life reasserted itself and somehow one put things together

again. That was it. Once you had become necessary to each other, you could withstand the shock

of some disastrous discovery. Besides, if only she could find the courage to tell him herself, that

would somehow make it better.

Rather wearily, Marigold dragged herself to her feet. She could sit like this all night, alterna-

tively frightening and reassuring herself, and she would come no nearer any real tranquillity.

Well, it didn't matter. She had taken the only decision that mattered. She was going to marry

Paul in a week or a fortnight. And if Fait thought that was a challenge which must be taken up,

then Fate could do its worst. At least she would have been Paul's wife, and known what

happiness was.

In spite of a short and restless night, Marigold was up in good time in the morning, and she

presented herself at the nursery school with a punctuality which made Stephanie exclaim:

'My dear, dear Marigold, even happiness doesn't put you off your stroke, I see. Bless you,

darling! Paul rang me early this morning and told me the news. I can't tell you how happy I am

about it.'

'Oh!' Marigold laughed and returned the very warm kiss which Stephanie bestowed on her.

'He didn't lose much time in spreading the news, did he?'

'No. But then that's just like Paul. You didn't mind his telling me, did you?'

'Of course not! It's just that I'm trying to get used to the idea myself, and I'm not quite sure

whether it makes it more real or unreal to hear someone else talking about it.'

'Well, you've got to get used to it pretty quickly, haven't you? Are you really going to be

married in about ten days' time?' Stephanie asked interestedly.

'I think so. At least, Paul said a fortnight and I said a week if he liked, and now he seems to

have split the difference,' Marigold laughed, and Stephanie looked extremely pleased.

'Well, that doesn't sound as though he had to use much persuasion,' she remarked approv-

ingly. 'I'm so glad, Marigold. Of course you don't need me to tell you what a dear and splendid

person he is, but I'll say it, all the same. I've known him for as far back as I can remember, and

he's always been good and decent and straight. That counts a lot in a man. I know that.' And she

made a slight face. 'Paul doesn't just tell the truth. He lives the truth. It simplifies married life a

lot when two people are like that.'

Marigold murmured something noncommittal and appropriate. She felt ashamed and oddly

embarrassed that Stephanie never questioned her own standards of truth being the same as Paul's.

And perhaps, thought Marigold wretchedly, they were. Only circumstances had been rather

cruelly against her lately. No one could have wanted the truth more passionately than she did.

But perhaps wanting was not enough in itself.

It was impossible to feel that this was a day like any other day there had ever been. There

was the strangeness of her new work, the fascination of being surrounded by lots of chattering

children where before she had been used to loneliness and isolation, there was the ever-present

consciousness at the back of her mind that, in spite of everything, she belonged to Paul and he to

her, and then finally there was Paul himself, coming to collect her at lunch-time, so that she

could lunch with him and go to buy her real engagement ring.

'Don't hurry back,' Stephanie told her. 'We'll be official enough on other days, and I'm not

being lenient just because it's you. But one doesn't get engaged every day, and you must have

time to choose your own ring.'

Marigold laughed and promised not to be too long, all the same.

'And anyway,' she said to Paul, as they went down the drive together, 'I'd almost as soon have

the signet ring as any other. Somehow it means so much. You know—what you said when you

put it on my hand.'

'Yes, I know. And I meant it. You can keep that if you like, darling. But I want you to have a

real engagement ring too.'

She found that she also wanted one, when she saw the possible choice spread out before her. For

the first time she realised that Paul must be at least fairly well off, because he hardly seemed to

mind what he spent on her ring. It would be like him, of course, to be carelessly generous about

such a thing in any case, but it was something more than that.

As they went out of the shop together, she slipped her arm into his and said with a frank curiosity

that had something ingenuous about it:

'Are you quite rich, Paul?'

He laughed very much at that and asked:

'Does it matter if I'm not?'

'No. Of course not,' Marigold said, and she meant it.

'No one is rich in these days, darling. But I think I can promise that my wife won't want for any

essentials. Will that do?'

'Yes,' Marigold said contentedly, 'that will do. But very much less would have done quite all

right too. In fact, I wouldn't mind a bit if I had to go on earning my own living so as to keep

things going.'

'I should,' he told her firmly.

'But I can go on with my job at the nursery school, can't I?' she said anxiously. 'I've only just

started and I know I'm going to love it.'

'My darling, you do just what you like,' Paul assured her. 'And yes, I should think that much

the best thing is to stay on with Stephanie. She wants you there, it's a proper job of useful work,

and if you think you're going to be happy there, that settles it. Do we get any honeymoon, by the

way?'

Marigold considered that seriously, though it really made her feel giddy just to think of the

word 'honeymoon' in connection with Paul.

'It seems frivolous to ask for a holiday just as soon as I've started my work,' she said

doubtfully. 'Do you think we could make do with a long weekend, and have a holiday together

later—say, in the spring when the days are longer?'

'I think that's the best way,' he agreed. 'I don't really want to take much leave at the moment

either. We'll see if we can stretch our weekend from Friday to Tuesday morning, shall we?'

She laughed and nodded.

'Have you any ideas on where you would like to go?'

'No,' Marigold said, because she thought all places would be equally lovely with him.

Hadn't a bare London street contrived to be Paradise last night?

'May I make a very sentimental suggestion?'

'Why, Paul, of course!' she laughed. 'Are you really rather a sentimental person?'

'I expect so. Anyway, all men are on the day they buy an engagement ring.'

'All right. What's your sentimental suggestion?'

'Let's go back to the place where we first met, shall we?'

'The—place-—where we first met?'

'Yes. Now don't tell me you've forgotten where you first met me. Recollect the hearty thump

in the back which you bestowed upon me on the upstairs landing.'

'That hotel! Oh, no, Paul.' Dismay sharpened her protest in a way it was impossible to

disguise. The idea of going back to that hated place where Lindley had taken her as his weekend

girl!

'Why'—Paul looked as astonished as he felt—'why, we won't go if you feel like that, my

dear. I tell you—it was the merest sentimental impulse. But of course, if you don't want to go,

we'll find somewhere else.'

'Oh, yes, I—I'd much rather somewhere else.' She made a desperate attempt to recover her

composure and, at the same time, think of some explanation for her dismay. 'It's silly, of course.

But I—oh, well, I had such a horrid experience there. I—I don't think I want to go back there.'

'With the uncle you mean? I'd forgotten you might feel that way about it.'

'Yes,' she said with great relief. 'Yes. It was that beastly incident with Uncle.'

'And even the recollection of meeting my fascinating self hasn't wiped that out?' he grinned at

her.

'Oh, Paul—— Yes, it has. Only—only I'd rather not go back there.'

'All right. Well, think over where you would like to go, and we'll arrange it.'

'Yes, I will. I'll think about it this evening——'

'You're coming out with me this evening.'

'Well then, I'll think about it tonight. Perhaps somewhere quieter, Paul—more on our own. I

don't think I want a big hotel, do you?' She was anxious that they should both feel there was

every reason why they should not go back to that place where Lindley had taken her.

'Perhaps you're right,' he said thoughtfully. 'What we want, of course, is one of those magic

cottages where the work is all done by someone invisible and one has the place to oneself.'

'Well, we'll make something magic of wherever we go,' Marigold declared with a smile.

But it was Stephanie who made the really good suggestion, when Marigold was telling her

that afternoon of their tentative plans for a weekend honeymoon.

'Why don't you go to my house—the place where Paul first brought you?'

'Stephanie! It's a wonderful idea. But I thought the place was let furnished after you left.'

'It was going to be, but the arrangement fell through for the moment. The house is there if

you want it, Marigold dear, and no one will be more pleased than I if you choose to go there,'

Stephanie said earnestly.

In a moment Marigold knew that this was what she would really like. This was the place

where she felt Paul and she had come to know each other. Not that hateful hotel. The hotel was

like the last chapter of her life with Lindley. Stephanie's charming, friendly house had been a

new beginning to life in every sense of the word.

'Oh, Stephanie, I should love it. If only Paul will want it too,' she exclaimed.

'Paul,' declared Stephanie emphatically, 'will want whatever you want, my dear.'

And so it proved to be.

In the full sand exciting ten days which followed, Marigold sometimes wondered what it was

like to be engaged for a year and linger happily over all the details of getting married. There

must be a leisured charm about it, she thought, and a great deal of pleasure in prolonging the

anticipation. But the urgency and speed of her own short engagement had an element of drama

and excitement; which she decided was perhaps even more fascinating.

One advantage it certainly had, and that was that there was so little time to indulge in the

doubts and fears which would otherwise have assailed her. And if sometimes, at night in bed, she

was overcome by a sort of sick panic which set her heart pounding and made her throat constrict,

there was no one to know about that, and the sane light morning and the demands of her work

were always sufficient to thrust the fears away again into the recesses of her mind, where, if they

were not exactly conquered, they were at least temporarily under control.

Marigold's wedding-day turned out to be one of those incredibly bright and exhilarating days

which do occasionally force their way into a murky winter, making people say) <Isn't this heavenly?' or

'Such unseasonable weather,' according to their dispositions.

Perhaps because of that, Marigold found herself entirely confident and tranquil. She had

rather anticipated that she would be a prey to last-minute anguish and doubt. But instead she

found herself enjoying the sunshine, the short drive to the church and even the fussy kindliness

of her father's old solicitor, who had, with quite touching alacrity, taken on the office of 'giving

her away.'

There had been some difficulty about this detail of the wedding until she recalled her father's

old friend, because, as she had explained to Paul and Stephanie, 'I simply haven't a relation in the

world.' To which Paul had, very naturally, replied, 'Except your poisonous uncle, and I suppose

he wouldn't do.' And Marigold had very firmly ruled out her mythical uncle and resorted to

making a timid request to the old family solicitor to fill the role.

And so it was his kind and courteous platitudes that filled her ears as she drove to church on

her wedding morning.

It is one of life's injustices that, while a woman usually looks her best on her wedding day, a

man is very apt to look his worst. But

Paul, with admirable good humour and sangfroid, contrived to rise superior to the occasion —

even to the strain of a very quiet wedding m an almost deserted church—and the smile which he

gave Marigold, as she came towards him down the unexpectedly sunlit aisle, seemed to her the

final brightness in a dazzling and beautiful day.

Afterwards, the family solicitor had to hurry away (to bury another client, as a matter of fact,

only he had sufficient tact not to inform the wed ding party of this) and Marigold and Paul, to-

gether with Stephanie and David Trevlin, who had acted as best man, repaired to the Savoy Grill

to celebrate.

To Marigold it seemed that she was in some gorgeous fantasy. She felt slightly intoxicated —

not with champagne, but with happiness—so that she had a spurious courage which appeared to

her at this moment to be more than sufficient for coping with any crisis which was likely to arise.

If she thought of Lindley at all at this time, she thought of him as on the way to the United States

—or even already there. A thousand things might happen before he came back to England, and it

seemed not unreasonable to suppose, on this happiest of happy days, that one of those 'things'

might solve her problems for her.

With Paul beside her, and Stephanie and David Trevlin, so obviously happy in each other's

company, opposite her, it was difficult not to believe that the legendary state of living happy ever

after had not come upon them all.

In the early afternoon Marigold and Paul bade the other two good-bye and set off on their

brief honeymoon.

By six o'clock they were sitting by the fire in Stephanie's house, having tea together, with the

happy consciousness that the house, which was their own little world for the moment, was en-

tirely theirs.

It was after tea that Paul discovered that he had run out of cigarettes. 'I'll run down to the

local, darling, and get some. I shan't be more than a quarter of an hour,' he promised.

'All right. And I'll clear away, and pretend to myself that I'm being a capable housewife.'

'You don't mind being left?' he asked anxiously.

'Of course not,' Marigold said, and laughed. 'I feel at home here, anyway.'

And when Paul had gone, she cleared away the tea things, and wandered through the house,

examining everything and taking in the full pleasure that—even if it were only for a few day —

this was her first home with Paul.

Queer to think that it had been Stephanie'', home—perhaps with Lindley. Or had she come

here after they had more or less separated?

Marigold didn't want to think along those lines. All that belonged to the past. It was absurd

how one's thoughts could never be entirely detached from something which had happened She

was glad no photograph had been left here. Not, for instance, that photograph which had given

her such a terrible shock on the first evening she had come. She stood now looking round the

same room and, even without the photograph, the events of that evening re-formed themselves in

her mind.

She tried quite consciously to reject the memory which forced itself upon her, but for the

moment she was powerless to resist it.

And then, to her unspeakable relief, the doorbell rang, and that meant that Paul was back, and

the beautiful present immediately overwhelmed the hateful past, and there was nothing to worry

about any more.

She ran into the hall, hardly able to contain her relief and joy, and flung open the front door.

Standing outside on the step was Lindley.

CHAPTER VI

IN the first second of horrified surprise, Marigold wondered dully if this were the sort of thing

that made one faint.

What probably restored her was the realisalion that Lindley was almost as much taken aback

as she was.

'Why, Mari!' It was really only a moment before he found his voice, but it seemed like some

limitless period of time. 'Mari, what in heaven's name are you doing here?'

'I—I'm staying here,' she said, faintly and rather foolishly.

'Staying here?' And then, before she could stop him—even if she had had any such intention

—he gently put her aside and came into the house, closing the door behind him.

'Where is Stephanie?'

'She—she's not here. She's in London.'

'In London! I imagined her here all the time.'

'And I,' thought Marigold bitterly, 'imagined you in America.' How idiotic it had been ever to

suppose that so simple and satisfactory a state of affairs existed, just because one wished it

would.

'Then what are you doing here?' He took her arm in the old, familiar way and went with her

into the lounge. His whole air was now that of a man who felt very much at home. As no doubt

lit did, in one sense. 'I don't understand this business at all. It would be strange enough to have

you here with Stephanie. But that you're here without her is simply inexplicable.'

He paused, interrogatively Marigold felt, and she knew she would have to say something

now.

'Yes, it—it must seem odd,' she began. Then, because that sounded so stupid and unhelpful,

she added: 'I know Stephanie very well. I work with her.'

'Work with her? And how long have you known her? What is all this mystery, Mari?'

He sat down in an armchair by the fire—the chair in which Paul had been sitting only a

quarter of an hour ago—and stretched out his long legs comfortably in front of him. He was not

angry, she saw. At least, if he was, he had no intention of showing it, for his smile was perfectly

friendly.

But he was puzzled, perhaps even a little intrigued—and certainly not without a touch of

anxiety, though that too he contrived very largely to conceal.

Marigold sat down slowly on the arm of the chair opposite him. She was wondering how little

she could manage to say—how much she would be forced to say. 'There really isn't any mystery

about it. I—I happen to know Stephanie——'

How long have you known her?' he interrupted quickly, and for a moment his eyes narrowed

as she had seen them do once before. 'You didn't, by any chance, know her before you knew me?'

'No, of course not. I didn't even know what she was like. I took your account of her at its face

value.' He made a slight grimace and said: 'Is there a reproof implied in that?' 'You know best if

one is deserved,' Marigold retorted with sudden spirit. 'Anyway, I don't want to discuss

Stephanie with you. I did come to know her——'

'How?'

'That doesn't matter.' Marigold brushed the interruption aside with more authority than she

would have believed possible. 'I—I happen to have'—she cleared her throat—'a few days' leave,

and she lent me her house. But if you came down here to see Stephanie, then I'm afraid—I'm

afraid you'll have to go straight back to London.'

'And suppose I don't choose to go straight back to London, Mari?' His smile suddenly had a

quality of gay impertinence which made him look much younger and reminded her for a flaring

instant that she had once found him irresistible. 'Suppose I too have a few days' leave before

going to America—'

'Then you are still going?' She was unable to hide the eagerness behind that.

'Yes, I'm still going, though there has been some delay. You would have been glad of that

delay once, Mari.'

There was no reproach in that. Merely a statement of fact, and a statement so true that she

was unable to find a reply. He was quick to see the advantage of that silence, because he said

almost immediately:

'Has everything changed so much between us?'

But her reaction was not quite what he expected. Her grey eyes widened in something like

horror and she exclaimed:

'Oh, yes, yes! It could hardly have changed more. And what did you mean by saying you

might not choose to go back to

London? You—you'll have to go, won't you?'

He laughed, with the faintest touch of irritation in the sound, and shrugged.

'It may not be my house exactly, but at least it is my wife's house, and until now I have

always regarded it as a place where I can stay.'

'But, Lindley you—can't.' Dismay seemed to hold her in such a paralysing grip that she could

only protest sharply, instead of taking the situation in hand and dismissing him with authority.

He looked across at her, those brilliant dark eyes of his amused and challenging.

'I take it,' he said quite coolly, 'that we are alone—and should be for the whole weekend.'

She sprang to her feet, divided between the horror of remembering that Paul might return at

any minute and the fury of realising how Lindley regarded her.

'How dare you speak to me like that! How dare you even insinuate what you are suggesting?

Didn't I make myself clear enough when I said—'

'Now, wait a moment, Mari.' He was unmoved by her outburst—indeed he seemed more than

a little amused by it. 'You didn't expect this to happen. Nor did I. No one could have been more

surprised to find you here than I was. But there's a saying about taking what Gift gods give and

being thankful, you know. No, don't be so hot about it,' as she tried to interrupt him again. 'Listen

to what I have to say.' He leant forward and lightly caught her by her hand, so that she could not

escape. 'If you loved me as much as you said in the old days—'

He stopped suddenly, and she saw, as she stared down into his face, that his expression had

completely altered. For a moment she could not imagine what had happened. Then she realised,

as he jerked her hand forward, that it was her left hand which he had taken.

For the second time in their lives they both gazed wordlessly at a plain gold ring on the third

finger of her left hand. But this time he had not put it there.

After what seemed like a very long while, he said:

'So that's it? There's someone else.'

'Yes.' She was surprised that she found her voice so easily. 'There is someone else.'

'You ran away from a weekend with me, in spite of all your protests. But you're prepared to

do it with——'

Afterwards Marigold was both ashamed and pleased to remember that she snatched her hand

away and dealt him a smart slap on his cheek.

How dare you assume such a thing!' she exclaimed furiously. 'It may seem very strange to

you, but I'm on my honeymoon.'

'Your—what?' He put his hand to his cheek almost absently, his anger at the blow completely

swamped by his surprise at what she had said. Your honeymoon? But, my dear Mari, who on

earth is the happy man? And—forgive my curiosity—where is he?'

'He—he's gone out for a few minutes. And it's Paul Irving, and he'll be back at any moment,

Lindley, and—oh, I wish you would go!'

The anger and violence had suddenly all gone out of her. She remembered much too late that

perhaps it would have been better to have been pleasant, to have appealed to him not to spoil her

game, to have pretended to be rather a woman of the world, whose feelings were not much

involved but who expected some sort of loyalty to the rules of the game, as between one

graceless person and another.

Lindley, who had a sense of humour, might well have responded to that type of appeal. The

only difficulty was, of course, that Marigold's qualifications for appearing as a woman of the

world were few and not very convincing.

But now she had done the very worst thing of all. She had shown him that she was frightened

and that she knew he had the advantage of her. She had not made the very smallest attempt to

bluff her way out of her predicament, and now she was actually pleading instead of demanding.

She stood there, biting her lip, finding the greatest difficulty in keeping back her tears or

stopping herself from trembling. And as she did so, he repeated slowly.

'Paul—Irving?'

She nodded. 'It—it was through him that I came to know Stephanie. I haven't known him

very long either. Only—only——'

'Only since you ran away from me at the hotel,' he said, still speaking slowly. And because

there was nothing else to do, she nodded again.

'It was Paul who took you away that night?'

'Yes, Lindley.'

'Then he knows all about your being there with me?'

'Oh, no! No, he doesn't. I haven't explained that. You see, I asked him to take me away with

him, because there was no train and I wanted a lift in his car. It seemed like Providence,' she

added rather confusedly. 'I told him some story about having gone there with an uncle who was

nasty and—'

'And he believed you?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Yes, I suppose he would,' Lindley said. 'You have a truthful face.' And somehow that made

her want to cry again, but again she choked back the tears.

'He never guessed for one moment what had really happened '

'It didn't happen anyway,' Lindley pointed out with a certain brutal dryness.

She flushed.

'He didn't guess how it was I was really there. He accepted my story and brought me here to

Stephanie.'

'By God, that's funny!' Lindley declared, but he didn't laugh. 'So it was you who spoke on the

telephone the next day?'

'Yes.'

'Very well. What happened next?'

'He took me back to London on the Sunday night. And I'd said something to Stephanie about

wanting to change my job. I did want to change it. It seemed the—the only thing.'

'In order to get away from me?'

She passed the tip of her tongue over her lips and then said rather defiantly, 'Yes'. Then as he

made no further move to interrupt her, she went on:

'Stephanie happened to want someone to help her in the office of the nursery school where

sin- works. We—we liked each other from the first, She wasn't a bit as I had supposed. And

when she asked me if I would like to work with her, I jumped at it.'

'Wasn't that risking rather a lot?'

'Yes, I suppose it was. But I—I had to.'

'Why?' He was genuinely curious about that.

Marigold hesitated, trying to remember what it was that had made her feel she had to take

that job with Stephanie. Why, in the face of every prompting of caution, she had clung to the

connection with the two last people on earth she ought to have cultivated. At the time, the

impulse to accept had been overwhelming. Now it was not so easy to explain to someone else.

And then he found the answer for her.

'I suppose,' he said dryly, 'you already thought yourself half in love with Irving.'

'I didn't think it. I was,' Marigold retorted quickly. And she knew that was the truth.

'You're something of a quick-change artist, my love,' he told her, with that slight lift of the

eyebrows which she had always found amusing when he spoke mockingly of someone else. Now

the almost hated him for it, as she said curtly and finally:

'I can't help that. That's the way things were. And I was married to Paul this morning. Oh,

and'—as she remembered the fact again, she turned pale—'and he'll be back at any moment. I

can't think why he hasn't come before.'

'Perhaps he hasn't been so long as you think,' Lindley retorted lightly. 'I've only been here ten

minutes.'

She stared in stupefaction at the clock confirming that fact for herself. Ten minutes! And

nearly everything in the world had changed.

'It seems much longer,' she muttered involuntarily.

'It always does at a time of crisis,' he assured her with a touch of cynical amusement.

'But anyway, he can't be more than a few minutes now.'

'And what,' Lindley enquired coolly, 'do you expect me to do?'

'You must go! Don't you see that you must go?' She was nearly frantic as she realised by how

fragile a thread her whole happiness hung. 'If he finds you here—'

'Yes? What will he think if he finds me here? I thought you said he didn't know of any

connection between us. I've called here to see my wife, I find someone else's wife instead. Is that

my fault —or yours?'

'No. No, of course not. Only you must see how impossible it all is. You must see.'

She really meant that he must see it was beyond her to remain calm and apparently

unknowing if both Paul and Lindley were there together. But she saw, with frightened dismay,

that the situation appealed to Lindley's rather cruel sense of humour.

He could be so charming, so good-tempered, so easy-going on the surface. But she guessed

instinctively that he had not by any mean, forgiven the affront to his pride over that cursed

weekend. And it had not become any more acceptable to him because he found he had been cut

out by a younger man—and a man whom he already disliked very heartily. That little streak of

cruelty in him found considerable satisfaction in the idea of humiliating and frightening the girl

who had so unexpectedly refused to fall in with his plans and desires.

That she should receive this sharp lesson on the first day of her honeymoon struck him as

genuinely amusing.

There was a short silence between them while he refused, she saw, even to answer the appeal

she had made to him. Desperately she sought found in her mind for words or arguments that

would move him. But even as she did so, her furs, their hearing cruelly sharpened by the anxiety

of the moment, caught the sound of the gate at the end of the drive being opened and then dosed.

'Lindley—please! There are only a couple of moments left.'

'Nonsense, my dear.' He smiled at her, and she knew then that his smile could be hateful.

'You don't expect me to slip out at the back of the house as the unsuspecting husband comes in at

the front. That would be suggesting a guilty secret, if you like.'

She didn't say any more after that. She knew that he meant to stay now. In any case, it was

too late for him to go. She must concentrate all the energy and ingenuity she had on facing out

the situation boldly. If she kept her nerve, it was just possible that she might stave off disaster

even now.

She pushed back her fair hair rather wearily, and was faintly surprised to find that her head

was damp. Crossing the room to the mirror she passed her handkerchief over her face and then

deliberately powdered her nose and added touch of colour to her lips, while all the time Lindley

leant back in his chair and watched hot smilingly. She thought, as she glanced at hit reflection in

the mirror, that his amusement was not untinged with a certain admiration. Perhaps he was

surprised to find she had enough courage to go through with this. Certainly she was.

It had all taken only a few seconds, and her nerves were now strung up for the sound of the

bell, which would be the signal for her to run out into the hall and begin the comedy.

Instead there was the sound of a key in the door, and she remembered then that, of course,

Paul had a key. She might have thought of that when Lindley rang the bell, and then she would

have been less unprepared. But it was too late now to bother about that. She had to rearrange

what she had intended to do, and even that small alteration shook her nerve. But she had to speak

to Paul before he came into the room.

With hardly a glance at Lindley, who remained completely unmoved by all this, she sent out

into the hall, closing the door behind—

'Paul.' She hoped her tone held just the right amount of concern to indicate annoyance and

embarrassment, without implying fear and indigsation.

Hello, darling. I'm sorry I was such a time.' He was completely unaware of her tone holding

anything except pleasure at his return.

'Paul, there's something I've got to tell you. Lindley's here. I mean, Stephanie's husband is

here.'

Why hadn't she said 'Stephanie's husband' right away? That was the natural expression to use

if one didn't know him. Why say 'Lindley' as though she knew him as an individual, apart from

his being Stephanie's husband? But perhaps that didn't matter. Paul probably hadn't noticed in the

surprise and disgust of the moment.

She had never seen his expression quite so grim and uncompromising, and instinctively she

said in an anxious, urgent whisper—

'Don't make him angry, Paul.'

'Angry? I'd like to make him sorry he was born,' Paul said, quite pleasantly and quietly. 'You

stay out of this, darling. There's nothing to be frightened about. But it just isn't anything to do

with you.'

But it was! It was! And she could not afford to stay out of it. And she couldn't afford to let

him make Lindley angry.

'Paul, he didn't come with any intention of being horrid.' How she hated to have to defend

him! 'He thought Stephanie was here. He was astounded to find me here. I—I had to explain who

I was. Just be cool and polite, Paul, and get rid of him as soon as you can.'

If he was surprised at her concern he didn't show it. He didn't even answer her explanations

and advice, but gently detached the hand with which—she was surprised to find—she was

clinging to his arm. Then he went into the room. And because there was nothing else to do, she

followed him rather helplessly.

Even at the sight of Paul, Lindley made no attempt to change his comfortable and casual

position.

'Hello.' He nodded with that careless smile of his. 'Congratulations. I hear you're on your

honeymoon.'

'What do you want?' Paul asked coldly, without any attempt either to offer or return any

greetings.

'Want? Oh, my dear Paul, don't use that tone which sounds so painfully as though you think I

might have come to borrow money. A vice which I have never included among my repertoire of

things, let me remind you. I came here expecting to find my wife, and instead I find yours. She

has made me charmingly welcome, by the way in my wife's house. Is there any other explanation

required?'

'Yes. I see no reason why you wanted to come badgering Stephanie. And, since you found

she wasn't here, I see no reason why you didn't take yourself off again at once.'

'I was given to understand that if I waited a few minutes I should have the pleasure of seeing

you,' Lindley explained with his most charming smile.

Paul failed to react to the charm.

'Well, you've seen me. Now you can get out.'

'Oh, really, your regard for the laws of hospitality—'

"All right, Marne, that's enough fooling. It isn't even particularly amusing in a man of your

age.' Marigold noticed that quick narrowing of the eyes which, she knew now, always meant

anger or wariness in Lindley. 'I happen to be in possession of this house for the moment, and I

can think of no one I'm less anxious to see here than you. I can't say I shouldn't enjoy putting you

out bodily, but I'm prepared to forgo the pleasure if you prefer to get out on your own in the next

few minutes.'

'Is this demonstration of the masterful male calculated to intrigue your wife?' murmured

Lindley, but he got to his feet—though certainly in a leisurely way—and stood on the hearthrug,

with his hands thrust into his pockets.

'You know the way to the door,' Paul said pleasantly. 'Excuse me if I cut some of the

privileges of a host.'

'Where shall I find Stephanie?' Lindley asked, still almost casually, but the bantering note

had gone completely from his voice.

'I've no intention of telling you that,' Paul said, without any elaboration of the point.

'But, my dear fellow, I've every right to know where my own wife is.'

'I don't think so. She hasn't the slightest wish to see you. I don't intend that she shall be

bothered by you.

Lindley's smile became a shade more dangerous, so that Marigold, standing rather helplessly

in the background, found suddenly that she wanted to sit down, and groped for a chair.

'Aren't you taking rather a lot on yourself?' Lindley suggested. 'Undertaking to speak for

Stephanie quite so positively.'

'Possibly.' Paul seemed quite unmoved by this barge. 'But I've no intention of shifting from

that position. Stephanie doesn't wish to see you. That's all that interests me. Incidentally—in case

your solicitors haven't already informed you of the fact—she is starting divorce proceedings

against you. You may as well know that. It might simplify your views about seeing her.'

Marigold wondered if she really caught her breath audibly. She knew that she had made a

.light gesture towards Paul, as though she would restrain him from saying any more. But both

men had practically forgotten her existence for the moment, and she felt as helpless to stop the

course of events as she would have been to stop a mountain stream with her hand.

'Divorce, eh?' It was evidently news to Lindley, but he took it with admirable coolness.

'Where's the evidence?'

'If you weren't such a skunk,' Paul said thoughtfully, 'I could almost admire your effrontery.

You know as well as I do that your behaviour towards Stephanie has been disgusting for years-,

and yet you can——'

'I wasn't talking of behaviour,' Lindley reminded him smoothly. 'I was talking of a dence.

Quite a different thing, you know. Extremely concrete and so necessary in a court of law.'

'Oh, don't be a fool,' Paul said with contemptuous impatience. 'What about your week end at

Porterville at the beginning of the month, if you want a specific case?'

'Oh—that?' The smile which broke over Lindley's face told Marigold immediately that one

man, at least, had now remembered her presence in the room. 'An entirely harmless and innocent

occasion, I assure you.'

'I don't want your assurance,' Paul retorted dryly. 'I know all I want to know about that

weekend.'

'From whom?'

'I happened to be there.'

'I see.' Lindley seemed genuinely interested. 'And you talked it over with—my young friend.'

'Your young——Oh, good lord, no!' Paul laughed contemptuously. 'I don't know or care who

the little sweep was. Hotel registers are useful things, you know.'

To Marigold's horror, Lindley began to laugh, so that she thought Paul must surely guess that

something was wrong.

'So you're not interested in the—little sweep's identity? Really, Paul, you're almost too

academic and impersonal. Well, perhaps you're right. Perhaps that's the way these things should

be conducted. But don't be absolutely sure of your case till the decree comes through. Not even

interested, eh? Marvellous objectivity.' Then he broke off, perhaps because he saw Paul was not

very far from hitting him under the jaw, perhaps because he knew that Marigold was not very far

I mm fainting.

'I'll have to go now. I'm glad we've had this little talk. And I'm glad to have met your charm-

ing wife.'

Paul too remembered Marigold then, and turned to her with quick concern.

'All right,' she whispered. 'Don't bother about me.' And she almost prayed that her expression

was not showing more than the natural concern and embarrassment which any young wife might

feel at having this unpleasant family scene forced upon her on the first day of her honeymoon.

But the next moment she found that she had to achieve more than that. She had to stand up

and receive Lindley's polite good-bye, delivered with such an air of cynical amusement that it]

was all she could do to maintain an air of cool aloofness, suited to her position as a stranger who

deplored his behaviour without having any personal interest in it.

Somehow she achieved the almost impossible. And then both the men had gone out of the

room, and she was free to sink down in her chair again, and lean back for a blessed instant with

her eyes closed, while fear and apprehension and relief flooded over her in turn, like waves

which literally threatened to drown her.

At first there was nothing but the sick, shuddering reaction from the strain of the scene which

had just passed. Then came the dread and terror of what might develop later. But finally —as

though human nature had stood all that it could and now must find some relief, however

temporary—she could think of nothing but the fact that Lindley had gone at last, and still Paul

had no idea of her part in all this.

It was ridiculous to cling to that one bit of spurious comfort. Even as she did so, she had to

remember too that because he knew nothing, she had had to plunge deeper and deeper into

deception, so that ultimate exposure had become an even more horrible thing, if it should ever

come.

And what genuine hope was there of being able 10 avoid it?

'But I can' t think of that now,' Marigold told herself with defiant despair. 'I simply can't think

of that now. I've been saved for the moment. I'm on my honeymoon, I'm Paul's wife. If I'm found

out tomorrow, I shall still have been Paul's wife for a few hours. That's all anyone in my position

can hope for—to see a few hours ahead.'

For a moment her thoughts became so desperately confused that her head quite literally

ached. Then, unaccountably, Paul was beside her, and his voice said very tenderly:

'Here, drink this, darling. What is it? You weren't really frightened by that damned cad, were

you?'

'No,' whispered Marigold, knowing that she had probably never been more frightened in her

life. 'No. I'm really quite all right. My head ached a bit, and— and I just shut my eyes for a

moment.'

He accepted her explanation, but he looked at her with some concern, and Marigold cursed

herself for the stupid touch of faintness which must have come over her. He would think she was

like some Victorian heroine—fainting because two men had an argument in front of her. Or

would he perhaps begin to wonder if there- were some thing more to it than that—some personal

element which he had not thought of until that moment?

But, with the realisation that her tormented imagination was about to present new and more

terrifying possibilities to her, Marigold made a supreme effort at self-control.

She sat up and smiled at Paul.

'I'm perfectly all right now. He has gone, hasn't he?'

'What, Lindley? I should say he has. What pleasure it would have given me to kick him down

the front steps! I say, darling, I'm most frightfully sorry to have inflicted this on you on your

wedding day. I don't know what you can be thinking of the family you've married into. But it's

only the connections by marriage who are quite impossible. We are really quite nice ourselves

and—'

'Oh, thank you,' Marigold said and began to laugh. In her hysterical relief that Lindley had

gone and that discovery had somehow been put off, she could have gone on laughing and laugh-

ing and laughing. But, with another effort, she managed to get a grip on herself, just as Paul said:

'I don't see—Oh, lord! I'm sorry. You know what I mean, you absurd darling.' And then he

laughed too, and kissed her so that she could easily have passed from laughter to tears, and she

longed almost unbearably to cling to him and tell him the whole story.

But confession was just the last luxury she could allow herself. She could only let the present

happiness of his love act as a drug to calm her fears, and to help her to a determined ignoring of

the frightful gulf which Lindley's visit had opened beside her.

After that they sat by the fire, sharing the same big armchair, and talked of the beautiful

present and the vague, lovely future, so that somehow Marigold almost forgot Lindley and the

past which he represented. And when Paul said, in one of the long, pleasant silences, 'I wish that

fellow would break his blasted neck on the way back to Town,' she very nearly said, 'What

fellow?' before she remembered that he was speaking of the shadow which lay across Stephanie's

life, without in the least knowing that the same shadow lay across his own life and hers too.

She perhaps begin to wonder if there-were some thing more to it than that—some personal ele-

ment which he had not thought of until that moment?

But, with the realisation that her tormented imagination was about to present new and more

terrifying possibilities to her, Marigold made a supreme effort at self-control.

She sat up and smiled at Paul.

'I'm perfectly all right now. He has gone, hasn't he?'

'What, Lindley? I should say he has. What pleasure it would have given me to kick him down

the front steps! I say, darling, I'm most frightfully sorry to have inflicted this on you on your

wedding day. I don't know what you can be thinking of the family you've married into. But it's

only the connections by marriage who are quite impossible. We are really quite nice ourselves

and—'

'Oh, thank you,' Marigold said, and began to laugh. In her hysterical relief that Lindley had

gone and that discovery had somehow been put off, she could have gone on laughing and laugh-

ing and laughing. But, with another effort, she managed to get a grip on herself, just as Paul said:

'I don't see—Oh, lord! I'm sorry. You know what I mean, you absurd darling.' And then he

laughed too, and kissed her so that she could easily have passed from laughter to tears, and she

longed almost unbearably to cling to him and tell him the whole story.

But confession was just the last luxury she could allow herself. She could only let the present

happiness of his love act as a drug to calm her fears, and to help her to a determined ignoring of

the frightful gulf which Lindley's visit had opened beside her.

After that they sat by the fire, sharing the same big armchair, and talked of the beautiful

present and the vague, lovely future, so that somehow Marigold almost forgot Lindley and the

past which he represented.

And when Paul said, in one of the long, pleasant silences, 'I wish that fellow would break his

blasted neck on the way back to Town,' she very nearly said, 'What fellow?' before she

remembered that he was speaking of the shadow which lay across Stephanie's life, without in the

least knowing that the same shadow lay across his own life and hers too.

CHAPTER VIIAF TERW A R D S Marigold used to wonder how it was that that dreadful scene with Lindley, at the

beginning of her honeymoon, completely failed to spoil what followed. By every reasonable

standard, it should have destroyed so much of her confidence and peace of mind that nothing

could be of any real value afterwards. And yet, somehow, it was not like that at all.

Not that Marigold was not aware of the shadow of danger in the background. Not that she

really forgot for one moment that her happiness might not last longer than a matter of days or

even hours. But, in defiance of all threats and doubts, she snatched the most perfect happiness

from her short honeymoon with Paul.

Nothing in her life had ever given Marigold such happiness or such belief in herself before. If

she could make Paul happy like this, then she could challenge the world.

To do her justice, her own happiness had really become a secondary concern. He was the

more important. To be sure, the two were now inextricable. But, where before she would have let

things take their course—watching them helplessly and hoping for the best—now she felt that

some fight must be made. And it was this which finally decided her that she must see Lindley

before he left the country.

Even then, she refused to let the fully formed thought spoil her honeymoon. Only, at the back

of her mind, was really the acceptance of the idea that she and Lindley must have the cards on

the table.

It was not going to be easy—that she knew. For one thing, even the amount of time left to her

before he went out of the country was uncertain. It might be a week or two, or it might be only a

day or two. She could not afford to wait. When she went back to Town, the first and urgent thing

must be to arrange to see him —however distasteful the interview might be, and however

difficult it might be to manage it when either Paul or Stephanie had a claim on most of her time.

She refused to think of the necessary and unpleasant details until the last moment of that

lovely honeymoon was over. But the opportunity arose as they neared London.

'As a matter of fact, darling, I'm going to have to desert you today, at least, so far as lunch is

concerned,' Paul told her. 'There's some sort of conference on this morning and I don't really

know when I'll get away. Perhaps you can arrange something with Stephanie,' he added, as

though Marigold had never had lunch on her own before, and might not know quite what to do.

She laughed.

'I don't expect Stephanie will be able to get away at the same time as myself. But anyway,

doesn't matter. I have had lunch on my own before, you know, and I can't expect a busy hm band

to contrive to meet me every day.'

'All right.' He turned his head and smiled at her.

Somehow she contrived to smile back at him, but it was purely mechanical, because the

chilling thought had just come to her: 'This is probably the best opportunity you'll get of

arranging to see Lindley.'

Suddenly the crisis was right on top of her, The idea which had existed in embryo for the last

few days was suddenly clear and inescapable-. It was no longer: 'I must see Lindley some time.'

It was: 'Today I must see Lindley.'

Paul dropped her near Victoria, soon after nine o'clock, kissing her with the brief warmth of a

man who was very much in love, but very busy. For him, too, the realities of life were coming

uppermost. Their honeymoon was over.

As she went down the steps, her pace insensibly slackened. The tight feeling in her throat, the

slightly clammy chill between her shoulders, Were the intensification of all the nervousness there

had ever been. Nervousness before exams at school, nervousness on the first day at the office,

nervousness before any and every ordeal which one strove, naturally but quite uselessly, to

ignore or postpone.

She had to find a telephone box now and somehow make some arrangement with Lindley. It

was the lowest extremity of cowardice to hope that he would be out, that she would be unable to

get in touch with him, that the telephone would be out of order. But she hoped all these things,

while she knew inevitably that they could do nothing towards solving the problem which grew

bigger with every delay.

The telephone box was hot and stuffy. The last person who had used it must have been

smoking strong tobacco, and it made her feel stupid and as though she might have difficulty in

hearing. Or perhaps that was nothing to do with stuffiness or tobacco fumes. Perhaps it was just

the beating of the blood in her ears,

She dialled Lindley's number with strangely stiff fingers, and heard the distant buzzing.

Suppose she had the wrong number? Suppose he was no longer living at his luxury flat? Sup

pose he had gone out early?

'Hello,' Lindley's voice said crisply in her ear, And with an effort she replied:

'This is Marigold speaking.'

'Who?' He was surprised and, she knew immediately, intensely amused as well. 'Mari gold?

My dear, how charming of you to ring. I thought you were on your honeymoon, with no thoughts

of such an unworthy creature as myself.'

'I'm back in London. We came back this morning.'

'And you rang me at once? I'm overwhelmed.' He was definitely laughing now.

'Lindley, I want to see you. I must see you —if possible today.' She wished she could make

her voice sound less urgent—more as though it didn't matter a damn to her, but ii might be wiser

for him to do what she suggested.

'I can't manage today,' he replied coolly, and she wondered why she never noticed before

how extraordinarily insolent he could make his attractive voice sound.

'But I must see you before you go away. You——you surely see that there are—there are

several things we have to—to discuss.'

'Are there?'

'Yes, Lindley, of course there are. For your sake as well as mine.' She wondered if that

sounded convincing and decided that it did not.

He seemed to decide that too, because he laughed again.

'I'm extraordinarily flattered at this sudden interest in me,' he began. But she interrupted him

sharply.

'Please, Lindley. I know it must be fun to lease and humiliate me. But will you be serious for

a moment? I haven't all the time in the world to stand here talking. I don't know when you're

leaving England, but I suppose it's probably soon, and I may not get another chance. I'll be free at

lunch-time today. I shan't always be free then, because—because I expect Paul and I shall

usually meet. But today he's got a conference. I can get away on my own. Can't you arrange that

we meet somewhere?'

'For a really intimate talk, eh?'

'For some sort of discussion about—about what's happened,' she corrected sharply.

'Of course.' That edge of amusement win there again. 'I mean that we want somewhere where

we can be comparatively private.'

'I suppose so."

'Then you'd better come here to my flat.'

'To your flat? I can't possibly do that!'

'My dear girl, why ever not?'

'You know perfectly well why not.'

'I'm sorry, but I can't keep arranging and rearranging things to suit you, Mari. After all, it's

you who are demanding this interview. I'm doing my best to fall in with the demand, within the

limits of a very necessary privacy. Time was when you were not so squeamish—though perhaps

I ought not to remind a respectable married woman of that. I'll expect you here about one, shall

I?'

She was silent for a moment, trying desperately to decide if it were best to take at least what

he offered and make the best of it. It was not as though anyone who knew her could possibly see

her going in or out of his flat—and, anyway, lunch was a harmless enough meal. Only

'Where are you working?' he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She told him.

'Oh, well, ten minutes in a taxi will bring you lure. It could hardly be more convenient. I'll

expect you at one. If you don't arrive, I shall know you thought better—or worse—of it. Good-

bye.'

And even as she stood there, trying to think what next to say to him, she heard the receiver

click into place.

Slowly she replaced her own receiver, and stood there for a moment in most unwelcome

thought. Then a sharp tap on the window of the telephone box drew her attention to the fact that

an impatient old gentleman was waiting to follow her, and that he evidently thought she had

already had long enough, without adding insult to injury by standing there mooning when her

actual call was over.

She came out of the box, murmured an apology which was very ill received, and then went to

get her train.

In a sense, one horrid step was over. There was a reprieve of an hour or two before the next.

And it was amazing how precious even an hour or two could seem in the circumstances.

She sat in the Tube train, like hundreds of other office-workers, holding her newspaper in her

hand, and apparently studying its conning with interest. Her glance passed over the blurred lines

again and again, without the sense even reaching her brain, and once or twice she even turned a

page, as though force of habit compelled her to an action which really had no connection with

herself.

Oddly enough, she was not even pursuing and agitated train of thought. She was just sitting

there, with her mind peculiarly blank, while sin recovered from one crisis and prepared for tin

next.

But before that came upon her, she had to be a normal and happy bride returning to work

from her honeymoon. And she had to play that role sufficiently convincingly to pass the

affectionate scrutiny of Stephanie.

Marigold decided that deception was becoming almost natural to her, because Stephanie's

greeting was:

'Well, there's no need to ask whether the honeymoon was a success. You look as though

you've found the proverbial pot of gold.'

'Do I really?' Marigold smiled. 'Well, that's how I feel,' she added mendaciously, and won-

dered where truth ended and lies began. Because, of course, so far as the honeymoon itself was

concerned, that was how she had felt. Stephanie stayed only for a few minutes to think to her

then, but later in the morning she came into Marigold's room, to snatch ten minutes and a cup of

coffee, and asked how 'everything had gone off,' as she styled it.

Slightly to her surprise, Marigold found her- self giving a most entertaining and amusing

account of everything. One incident only she missed out. No mention was made of Lindley. She

hardly knew whether this was because she could not have told Stephanie quite calmly what had

happened, or whether she naturally left it to Paul to decide whether anything at all should be

said.

After all, if it were only going to upset Stephanie for nothing, there was no point in men-

tioning his visit. On the other hand, it was possible that she might as well know that he wanted to

see her, but that Paul had told him of the divorce proceedings pending and that Stephanie had no

intention of seeing him. Anyway, that was something Paul must decide. Mercifully, Marigold

might legitimately regard that as not her business.

'I know Paul always has a conference on Tuesdays,' Stephanie broke in just then, 'and I

thought it would be so flat for you on your own, after a few days of bliss, so I've arranged things

so that we can have the same lunchtime for once.'

For a wild moment, Marigold thought she must accept this reprieve. Lindley had even said

that if she didn't come he would know she hail thought better—or worse—of it. She could go

with Stephanie to some pleasant, undramatic lunch and push away the dreadful thoughts old

crisis for a few cowardly hours longer.

But the next moment she knew it was impossible. Like perpetually postponing an operation

which was the only thing that could save one's life. And she heard herself saying with the most

convincing regret:

'Oh, Stephanie dear, I'm so sorry. I never thought of your being able to arrange that. I rang up

on the way to the office and made a lunch appointment with—with a friend.'

'Why, that's quite all right,' Stephanie assured her. 'We can go another day. I don't know why,

but somehow I always imagine you without any friends. Quite ridiculous of course. I suppose it's

because, in a way, we know so little about you, although you're so much one of us by now.'

Marigold hoped her smile was not so faint as it felt, and said:

'Yes, I suppose so. Though I haven't many friends, as a matter of fact.'

'Is this one a friend from your last office?' Stephanie asked, not because she was curious, but

simply for something to say.

Marigold moistened unexpectedly dry lips with the tip of her tongue and said: 'Someone I

met through the office.' And then hated herself for the half lie which Stephanie accepted so

unhesitatingly.

She was glad that Stephanie went back to her work soon after that, and for a moment she

could sink her face in her hands, and try to escape from the confusion of her thoughts, which

made it so difficult to decide just what cool and calm line she should take during the interview

which was now drawing perilously near.

At a quarter to one she rather deliberately and unnecessarily tidied the papers on her desk,

arranging everything with care, as though she had all the time in the world at her disposal. Then

she put on her hat and coat, studying herself in the mirror as though her appearance really

mattered. Perhaps it might, of course, she reflected cynically, if she had to do any pleading.

But she knew, the very next moment, that pleading would not be the line to adopt with Lindley.

Then suddenly her whole mood changed. Slid was desperately afraid that she might be late,

and he would not wait for her.

Hastily she ran down the stairs, and with difficulty restrained herself from running down the

drive too. As she hastened along she kept on telling herself that it might be impossible to pick up

a cruising taxi at this time of the day. But as slit- came out of the gate, one was actually passing,

and drew in to the kerb at her signal.

She gave the address, and then sank back against the worn, shiny upholstery of the seat. And

immediately the cause for hurry seemed to sink away from her, and she wished the taxi would

crawl, so that she might never reach her journey's end—or at any rate, only when it was too late

to do anything.

There was something horribly exhausting about this alternating of a frantic desire for speed

and an equally frantic desire to drag things out to their fullest limit of time, and Marigold leant

back with her eyes closed. In a minute she would think out just what she was going to say and

do, but for the moment she must just be still, and hope that her heart

too would lessen its almost choking beat.

She must have remained like that much longer than she had intended, because suddenly the

taxi stopped with a jerk, and when she opened her eyes to see if they were in a traffic block, she

realised with a start which seemed to wrench her heart that they were already there.

Reluctantly she got out and paid the taxi- driver, and still more reluctantly she went slowly

into the palatial block of flats.

It was the first time she had ever visited Lindley like this. In their brief and romantic

acquaintance he had never asked her here —perhaps because he knew instinctively that she

would have been half alarmed at such an invitation. No doubt if that weekend had come to

anything---------

But there was no need to follow that train of thought. And with something more like resolu-

tion, Marigold went into the panelled lift, which bore her upwards in almost complete silence, to

the top floor, where Lindley had his flat.

As she went along the heavily carpeted corridor, even Marigold, inexperienced as she was,

knew that one paid very heavily indeed for this degree of discreet efficiency and restrained

luxury. Lindley was not a man who stinted himself in anything. Stephanie's little house was

unpretentious and homely compared with this. But Marigold longed for it suddenly, with an

intensity which almost brought tears to her eyes.

However, this was no moment for tears, and the silent manservant who admitted her was cer-

tainly not the kind of person before whom one shed them.

He took Marigold into a long, spacious room, where she had a momentary impression of

deep cream carpets, black furniture and old gold hangings. Then Lindley rose from a chair by the

window and came smilingly towards her. And she forgot all about furnishings and hangings and

everything but the scene which was now right on top of her.

'My dear, this is really charming!' He was the perfect host while the servant was in the room.

'Come and have a drink before lunch.'

She accepted the drink—not because she wanted it, but because it gave her something to do

in the first difficult seconds, and she thought it might help to steady her.

'I can't stay to lunch, Lindley. I mean, I don't want any lunch. I only want a chance to talk and

—'

'Oh, but that's absurd. Of course you must have lunch. You're going back to your work this

afternoon, aren't you?'

'Yes, of course. But I'll get a sandwich or something.'

'Nonsense. That's quite unnecessary.' He handed her a glass with a smile. 'What shall we

drink to? Future happiness?'

She drank nervously, without answering him. Then she looked up again, wishing either that

she were not in such a low chair or else that he would not tower over her with quite such smiling

assurance. It made her feel like a suppliant at once. And not a very hopeful one, at that.

'It's very kind of you—about lunch, I mean. But what I want is a serious talk, Lindley. And

there's no chance of that with a servant in and out all the time and—'

Well, we'll see.' He smiled with seeming good nature. 'What is this very serious talk about?'

Your divorce, of course.'

Oh, my divorce. How good of you to take so much interest in my affairs.'

Lindley, unfortunately this is my affair too. You heard what Paul said. You know what the

situation is. He hasn't the faintest idea that I —that I—Well, he doesn't know who the real co-

respondent is. If it should ever come out

She stopped despairingly. Then, as he said nothing, but simply watched her, she went on again

doggedly, 'I love him, Lindley, I——'

'You thought you loved me once,' he said softly.

'Yes, I know. But that was different. You must believe me when I tell you that it was nothing

more than a wild and romantic infatuation. I'm not making excuses for myself. I behaved very

badly. I even didn't behave specially well to you.1

'That's true.'

'But then you didn't behave very well to me,

Lindley. You made me think——Oh, well, that doesn't matter. I didn't come here to upbraid

you.'

'No? I'm still waiting to hear why you did come here.'

'I came to see if there's anything we can do. Anything which will be a way out of this dread-

ful tangle without my having to tell—without Paul having to know what I was really doing at the

hotel that night.'

'Do you mean that you don't want Stephanie to divorce me?' he enquired pleasantly.

'Because, if so, your wishes jump with mine.'

'No,' Marigold said firmly. 'No, I don't mean that. I think—I think Stephanie would be much

happier divorced, and I can't see that you have much to gain by keeping her. Only I don't want

the divorce to be based on what happened that weekend. I know it's just remotely possible that

my name can be kept out of it—'

'How?' he enquired coolly, and she felt her heart stop.

'Why—why—' she stammered. 'I thought—Paul himself said he didn't know who the little —

I mean, he didn't know who the girl was, but that it didn't matter. That the case could go forward

with the co-respondent remaining anonymous. What do you mean?'

Lindley took a cigar and thoughtfully cut it and lit it before replying. Then he spoke at last,

just as she thought her nerves could stand the strain of waiting no longer.

'My dear Mari, there's one very important fact in all this which you appear to have over-

looked entirely. And that is that, so far as this interesting weekend is concerned, no—what shall I

say?—no offence, in the meaning of the divorce laws, took place.'

'I know. I know. But there's the hotel register.

Our names appear as—'

'To be sure. But what does that really amount to?' Lindley smiled at her and shrugged his

shoulders almost deprecatingly. 'I know your simple and tiresome Paul imagines that there- will

be plenty of evidence of the chambermaid variety to back up that entry. But there isn't any, is

there?'

'No! No, of course not. But surely—isn't the register sufficient in itself?'

'Possibly,' Lindley agreed. 'It's just possible that, so long as the co-respondent remained, as

you put it, anonymous, the register might be accepted as sufficient evidence, though I doubt it.

But the really important thing, my dear Mari, is that, as soon as the co-respondent's real identity

is established, she has a cast-iron alibi. She left the hotel quite early that evening with no less a

person than the man who is now her husband. Few people have ever had a better alibi. Therefore,

you see, it really hardly seems possible that your name can be kept out of it.'

'But do you mean—' Marigold broke off, staring at him in horrified dismay, her grey eyes

almost black in her white face. 'Do you mean that you'll deliberately disclose my identity?'

He looked back at her, the very slightest trace of defiance in his easy smile.

'I'm sorry, Mari. Believe me. I'm really sorry. But I have no intention of allowing Stephanie

to divorce me, if I can help it. By the—admittedly unfortunate—disclosure of your identity, I can

How their whole divorce case sky-high. And incidentally, make Paul Irving look a damn fool,' he

added with undisguised satisfaction.

'But you can't do that, Lindley! Think what it will mean for me.' She was pleading now, after

all, little though she had intended to do so.

'But, my dear, think also what it will mean for ne if I don't disclose your identity. The

evidence o the register may be taken as conclusive. Indeed, if I make no defence or protest, it

will be be taken. You're really asking too much, you know.'

'But it can't matter to you if Stephanie divorces you. You can't possibly pretend that you care

for her or that your happiness is in any way concerned with keeping her as your wife,' Marigold

exclaimed. 'There's so little involved for you, Lindley, and everything which matters for me.'

'I'm afraid you're jumping to too quick concisions there, Mari,' he assured her pleasantly. 'My

marriage to Stephanie may not be an ideally happy one, but it suits me extraordinarily well in

many ways. I needn't go into that with you. Possibly you would think some of my motives small

compared with the grand motive of preserving Paul in a state of happy innocence. But then, A S

you must have suspected long ago, my dear, I'm a selfish creature. I make no pretence to being

anything else'—he smiled, as though that excused all—'and, quite frankly, I'm consulting my

own interests in this. Not yours—not Paul's.'

She was silent for a moment, in sheer dumb horror, as the full meaning of what he was

saying seeped into her consciousness. Then suddenly she roused herself.

'Lindley, I can't believe that you'll deliberately spoil everything—even the one slender chance

of—of escape which I had. Won't you please at any rate give me the chance of my name not

coming out? God knows, it's small enough. You say Stephanie would be unlikely to get a divorce

on the strength of the hotel register alone. Oh, but I want her to get her divorce, poor Stephanie!

She's had such a rotten time. She deserves some happiness now.'

'Is that what you came to tell me?' he asked rather coldly.

'No. At least—yes. In a way, it was. I hoped —oh, Lindley, I did hope that the divorce could

go through on some—some other evidence.'

'What other evidence?' he enquired.

'Oh, I don't know, Paul says——' She stopped, suddenly afraid of this man who held so much

power in his hand.

'Yes? Do tell me what Paul says.'

'Lindley, don't be angry, but—it's the truth, isn't it? I wasn't the first, by any means. There —

there were other times. And those times the girls didn't go away early in the evening.'

Something about the way she said that seemed to amuse him intensely.

'Are you asking me to supply incriminating evidence?' he asked lightly, as he poured himself

another whisky, after she, with a gesture, had refused his invitation to another.

'I'm asking you to be generous,' she said slowly.

'Generous?' He smiled and shook his head slightly. 'That's too much to ask of my type, Mari. But

tell me—what was the generous course you had mapped out for me?'

She hesitated. It was so hopeless to go on talking to this smiling man, who had no real intention

of taking into consideration any interests other than his own. And yet she could not go away

without saying everything—however futile—which she had once felt might influence till

situation.

'Lindley, there's all my happiness involved in this.' She spoke in a low voice, nervously

fingering a fold of her dress as she spoke. 'I don't know whether that means anything to you at

all, but I thought—I thought you were fond of me once, so perhaps it means a little. I know I've

behaved foolishly—wickedly, if you like, but—but I've paid a good deal already in misery and

fear. Now I have a chance of being happy—happier than I've ever dreamed of being. It means

Paul's happiness too, though I don't expect that matters to you, because you don't like Paul, do

you?'

He shook his head, still smiling.

'Too much to expect a man to like his successful rival,' he declared.

'Well then, there's Stephanie. Surely her happiness means something to you still. You must

have loved her once—or at least have been fond of her. If you'll let her divorce you without —

without defending the suit, she can be happy.'

'With someone else?' he asked quickly.

'I don't know,' lied Marigold coolly, because she felt that, whatever happened, she must not

betray Stephanie. 'But whether there is someone else or not, she can't be happy tied to you, in this

wretched and unsatisfactory arrangement. I mean, let her divorce you. And please, please won't

you let it go forward on some sort of evidence other than the—the weekend which involves me?'

She stared at him with anxious, imploring eyes, and saw, with a sinking heart, the air of

amused protest with which he raised his eyebrows.

'Are you suggesting I should actually supply the evidence for a painless divorce?' he

enquired.

'It couldn't—matter to—you which occasion was used,' muttered Marigold wretchedly.

He didn't answer that, but, turning from her, walked slowly up the room and back again. She

looked after him, for a wild moment or two her hopes rocketing to unbelievable heights. Was it

possible that he was actually thinking over what she had suggested—that he might even accede

to what she was asking?

But as he turned and came slowly towards her again, she felt her heart sink once more. There

was nothing at all in his face to encourage such flattering hopes.

'Now listen, Mari.' He paused in front of her, and she looked up at him with painful intensity.

'I don't often bother to explain my motives to people, but I'll tell you just why I shouldn't dream

of doing what you want.'

'I don't want to hear,' she cried in a sharp voice with the pain of disappointment. 'I don't want

to hear your beastly reasons if the end of them all is that you won't help me.'

'But you shall hear.' He caught her lightly by her wrist as she sprang to her feet. 'It may be

something of a lesson to you.'

She didn't ask him what sort of a lesson. She wrenched her wrist from his grasp, and sat

down again because she found it peculiarly difficult to stand and look defiant.

He smiled a little, as though he knew all about how weak she felt.

'You were perfectly right when you said I should hardly be likely to be concerned about

Paul's happiness. Equally I'm not concerned about Stephanie's happiness or yours. But I'll go

further than that. It will give me a modified pleasure to disappoint Stephanie in her virtuous

confidence that she can secure a divorce, with one hand, so to speak, against her erring husband;

it will give me even a modified pleasure to punish you for a quite unpardonable affront on a

certain much-discussed occasion. But what will give me a really profound and piquant pleasure

will be the knowledge that I can humiliate Paul Irving beyond anything he has ever imagined

and, if I'm not much mistaken, also wound him in whatever affections he has.'

'But it's monstrous of you!' Marigold cried distractedly. 'He's never done anything to '

'Oh, hasn't he?' Lindley interrupted her with a laugh, but this time it was a very short laugh

and there was the minimum of amusement in it. 'Paul Irving has allowed himself the indulgence

of being very offensive to me on quite a number of occasions. I'm going to pay all that back,

Mari, when I tell him who was with me at the hotel that weekend. And incidentally, there'll be no

divorce. I hate to stem the eloquence which I feel sure you want to pour out on me,' he added,

holding up his hand, as she made an eager effort to speak, 'but I have said absolutely the last

word on the subject.'

Even then she struggled to find some words —some protest or plea which would reach him.

But she knew, without hope of contradiction, that it was useless.

As she looked at him it was inevitably borne in on her that all three of them—Stephanie, Paul

and herself—had at one time or another wounded Lindley in the only sensitive part of him—his

pride and vanity. He might have forgiven one of them—possibly even two. But certainly not

three. And that was the end.

She got slowly to her feet. She felt slightly stunned by the completeness of her failure, but

that helped to dull the pain for the moment.

'Won't you stay to lunch with me, Mari, now that you and I have come to an understanding at

last?' he said lightly.

But she made a sick little gesture of refusal. A gesture which implied that food and he were

equally revolting at the moment.

'Well then, if you're quite determined—'

She didn't answer. She walked steadily to the door. He went quickly before her and opened it

for her. Then he followed her out into the hall and opened the front door himself, without calling

his servant.

Perhaps something in her face aroused the slightest, belated compunction in him, because he

said:

'Will you be all right?'

'Yes,' Marigold said. And that was all she did say. Without even a good-bye, she went out

into the long, carpeted corridor. She heard the door close quietly behind her, and it sounded to

her like the door closing on hope. Quite mechanically she pushed the bell for the lift and absently

watched the red lighted arrow moving up the glass panel as an indication that the lift was

coming.

In a minute she would realise just how awful everything was, but for the moment she felt

numb.

The lift stopped and the heavy door slid silently back. There was a man in the lift, and she

stood aside, almost blindly, for him to get out. But he didn't step forward. He only leant forward

and caught her by the arm, with an exclamation of astonishment.

Then, as though she were recognising him in a dream, she saw that the man was Paul.

CHAPTER VIII

IT was Marigold's second dramatic encounter within the space of a few days, and the shock was

almost more than she could bear. She caught her breath in an audible gasp, which immediately

seemed to her to sound like a wordless admission of guilt.

But, as he drew her into the lift beside him, Paul's expression reflected surprise and concern,

rather than any reproach or anger.

'What is it, darling? How on earth did you come here?' He sounded anxious, but certainly not

as though he were going to accuse her of anything.

All the same, she found herself exclaiming earnestly:

'You mustn't be angry with me, but I—I——'

'I'm not angry,' he said gently. 'Come on down with me and tell me all about it.' He pressed

the lift button for the ground floor.

'But I thought—' she hesitated. Then she said helplessly: 'Weren't you coming up to see —

someone?'

'It doesn't matter. That can wait.'

They were at the ground floor now and, taking her lightly by the arm, he piloted her,

unprotesting, into the street and hailed a taxi.

Even in the privacy of the taxi he made no attempt to question her about her strange presence

in Lindley's block of flats, nor did she offer to explain. He only said:

'Have you had any lunch?'

'Yes—no—it doesn't matter.'

'Oh, yes, it does. We'll stop at the end of the street. I know a quiet place on the corner there.'

He leaned forward and gave a direction to the driver, while Marigold nervously noted the

description 'a quiet place.' That would mean talk and explanations. She had to think of

something.

But even then, as though making time for prevarication, she said rather faintly:

'I thought you had a conference and couldn't get away for lunch.'

'I had. But it finished unexpectedly early. I phoned the nursery, but you'd just gone.'

Just gone! It seemed hours ago.

'And so?' In a fascinated way, she felt unable to refrain from questions. She was nearly as

anxious to know the reason for his presence in the Hats as he must be to discover why she had

been there.

'Eh?' He glanced at her sharply. And then, as the taxi stopped, he said: 'Oh, I wanted a word

with friend Lindley. There was a good deal left unsaid the other day.'

She slowly got out of the taxi, watching absently while Paul settled the fare and the driver

fumbled for change. Her mind was not at all on what she was seeing. It was darting here and

there in frantic quest for some explanation to give Paul when the rapidly approaching moment

was upon her. And then, in the few seconds' pause beside the taxi, she vaguely began to form

some idea which might fit the facts. Something Paul himself had said gave her a clue. She felt

incredibly stupid and stunned, after what she had been through in the last hour, but her thinking

powers were slowly re-asserting themselves. If she were careful—not over- elaborate in her

explanations—even now there ought to be a chance.

'Come along, darling.' Paul had her affectionately by the arm once more and they went into

the quiet, softly lighted restaurant together. Miraculously, as it seemed to her, they found a table

in a fairly secluded corner.

He wanted to consult her about her choice of lunch, but to discuss food was beyond Marigold

at that moment. She made a slight gesture of protest and said:

'I leave it to you. You choose.'

So Paul selected their lunch with the same care and attention that he gave to everything he

did. Then he looked up, as the waiter went away, and smiled at her across the table in an irresist-

ibly reassuring manner.

'Now, don't look so scared. I'm not angry about anything. I've told you I'm not. But I'm

devoured with curiosity. You haven't been letting yourself in for something unpleasant because

you thought you could arrange certain affairs better than I could, have you?'

'I went,' Marigold said deliberately, 'to see Lindley.'

It was out now, in all its crudeness.

Paul tightened his mouth slightly.

'Why did you do that, Marigold?' he said, still speaking quite gently.

'Because, as you said, I thought—I thought I might do some good—perhaps more than you.

It was evident the other day that he—he detests you. I thought perhaps he would listen more

readily to'—she swallowed a little—'to a stranger. I wanted to speak to him about Stephanie, to

explain what a good friend she was, and that I wanted her happiness. And I—I thought I might

persuade him to take a more —more reasonable view of the divorce. After all, if he wasn't

interested in her any more, I didn't see why he shouldn't agree to the divorce going through

quietly, unopposed. I thought he want possibly nasty the other day only because it WA S you who

talked to him about it. I thought, as he didn't know me and might regard me as a disinterested

person——'

She stopped, suddenly realising how long her speech had gone on, and that Paul made no

attempt to interrupt her. She remembered too late that she had not meant to be at all elaborate in

her explanations—just to state the facts simply. Now she was starting to repeat herself. She felt a

slight perspiration break out on her forehead, and then wondered immediately if it were obvious

to Paul.

He waited a few moments for her to go on, but when she failed to pick up the thread of her

argument, he said quietly—

'And what success did you have, Marigold?'

'N—none.'

'No, I was afraid not. I could have told you the result before you started, darling. It was sweet

of you to try to play this lone hand on Stephanie's behalf, but it was silly too. There's only one

thing that Lindley listens to—'

'And what's that?' The question came out with far more eagerness than she had intended.

'The voice of his own interests.'

'Oh.' Her disappointment was as patent as her eagerness had been, and she knew that neither

should really have sounded so acute.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'It was probably a beastly experience for you. The first time you'd handled

that type, eh?'

'Yes.' She didn't look at him as she said that.

'Was he—offensive?' Paul spoke grimly.

'Oh, no. No, not at all.' How offensive he had really been she mustn't even hint! It only

required a little more spite and resentment on Lindley's part for the whole thing to come out. 'He

was quite—polite and—agreeable. Only he —he was not prepared to listen to any argument or—

or pleading.' That was true, at any rate.

'You mean he is going to oppose the divorce?'

'Yes.' She wondered if her colour faded as she said that.

Paul thoughtfully moved some of the silver on the table, and appeared to study the pattern of

the cloth.

'Marigold, what made you so sure that he was going to contest the suit? I mean, so sure that

you actually decided to go along and try in change his mind for him?'

'Why, I thought he said——Didn't he say——?'

For a moment her heart seemed to come into her throat. Had she said something stupid? Some

thing which would show she knew more than she could have gleaned from merely hearing that

conversation a few days ago? With a dreadful effort she reached desperately into her memory.

'He said something about—about it being better for you not to count on the divorce until it was

through. Didn't you think—? I mean, I thought he meant then that he'd do all he could to oppose

it, didn't you?'

'Oh—that.' He recollected it evidently and nodded carelessly. 'I thought perhaps he said

something else to you—before I came in, you know.'

'Oh, no. No, he didn't, as a matter of fact. We —we didn't talk of anything much then.'

Marigold found her heart beating more normally again, as though she had been right to the

edge of a precipice and now had drawn back again to a slightly safer distance. It was ridiculous.

She must keep her wits more about her. In her terror she had even forgotten the useful few

minutes of conversation she had had with him before Paul came back from the local that day. It

would be as well to remember that as a credible source of information if she were so silly as to

make another slip and to appear to know more than she reasonably should.

The waiter brought their lunch just then, and they both remained silent while he was setting

out the dishes. Then, when he had gone again Paul said, with a reflective smile, slightly tinged

with admiration:

'So you were even prepared to beard Lindley in his own den, in the hope of making things

easier for Stephanie—and me.'

She smiled faintly, feeling a guilty ache in her throat at this undeserved praise, but, at the

same time, a terrible relief that her escapade was beginning to lose its dangerous aspect and to

look creditable, rather than suspicious. She nodded without saying anything. 'How did you know

where to find him?' It was really terrible the way these menacing questions sprang up in one's

path, every time one dared to draw breath and feel almost safe. She pretended to busy herself

with the lunch dishes. Then she cleared her throat and said:

'I looked him up in the phone book, of course.'

That was safe enough, surely!

But Paul frowned puzzledly.

'He isn't in the phone book, is he? He hasn't been long at the flat—certainly not since the last

telephone book was issued.'

For a moment Marigold was tempted to reach for her handbag and gloves and run out of the

restaurant. But sheer desperation not only kept her rooted there, but stimulated her inventive

faculties to a degree she would never have thought possible. With something like mild wonder,

she heard herself laugh convincingly and say:

'No, of course—you're quite right—I remember now. I did look him up in the book to

confirm the number, and found he wasn't there I had to rely on my memory. We had his number

in the office, of course. I wasn't at all sure that I had it correctly, but fortunately I was right. See

what a good secretary your wife is.'

'She's a good everything,' Paul told her with an indulgent smile.

'Except a good girl,' thought Marigold. 'I wish I were dead.' Which was not, of course, strictly

correct.

For a minute or two they ate in silence. She stole a glance at him, to see if his expression

were puzzled or dissatisfied. But, unless he was concealing his feelings admirably, he had

accepted her explanation without reserve. She wondered if she dared to draw breath this time and

count herself safe for the moment. The most dreadful dangers and possibilities loomed in the

future, of course, but for the present she could grapple with only the immediate difficulties, and

they if she could dare to trust appearances—seemed settled.

Then suddenly she became afraid of the silence. People's thoughts were apt to work more

quickly undisturbed by words. Suppose Paul began to think there were some thin places in her

story. . . .

'Now tell me about yourself,' she exclaimed interestedly. Almost too interestedly, she feared.

She sounded bright and unconvincing. She must do better than that. 'You haven't told me yet

about your own proposed visit to Lindley. At least, hardly anything about it. You can't imagine

what a—shock it was to see you there.'

'Yes, I can,' he said a little dryly. 'It was something of a shock to see you there, you know.'

'It—it must have been.' She smiled stiffly. 'It was nice of you, Paul, not to—to jump to some

sort of stupid conclusion. Lots of men would.'

Again she wondered if she had overdone that It was not easy to give the truth every

appearance of being an incorrect guess.

But Paul said simply and finally:

'I knew you must have some perfectly good explanation.'

'Did—did you?' She wished there were not such a lump in her throat. It made it difficult to go

on eating as though nothing were wrong. Why did he believe in her so unquestioningly!' Oh, it

was fortunate enough that he did, of course, but it made one feel wretched and contemptible

beyond words.

'Oh, you wanted to know about my going, there, didn't you?' he said at that moment. 'Well, I

suppose it was much the same impulse as with you. I found I unexpectedly had a free hour or so,

and I thought, "I'll go along and see what I can do with that—" Well, no, of course, you probably

didn't think quite the same wording as I did.' He grinned at her.

Marigold laughed slightly.

'As a matter of fact,' Paul went on, 'I wanted to see if I could trip the beggar up about that girl

he had with him that weekend. I was a bit of a fool, you know, Marigold, to go off in quite such a

hurry that time—except, of course, that I shouldn't have got to know you but for that. I ought to

have stayed on and tried to find out a bit more about her identity. I'm not so sure that the

anonymous co-respondent is going to be exactly a trump card in our hand. Pity I didn't find out

more about her. What did you say?'

'I didn't say anything. I was just—wondering how you were going to set about finding out

some more about her now.'

'Oh—well, I haven't any really brilliant ideas on the subject, to tell the truth. I rather hoped

that, if I went along and talked things over with him willy-nilly, he might let out something

without intending to.'

Marigold slowly shook her head, trying very hard to look like the sympathetically interested

wife who was really giving serious thought to some suggestion of her husband, while hardly

approving of it.

'You don't agree?'

'No,' Marigold said, as judicially as she could. 'No, I don't. I shouldn't think Lindley is the

kind of man to be tripped up easily into some damaging admission.'

'I agree, of course,' Paul acknowledged ruefully.

'You'd be much more likely to find yourself at a further disadvantage at the end of the

interview.'

'How?'

'Oh, I wasn't thinking of anything special! Only I think Lindley Marne is very good at timing

things to his own advantage.'

'You're telling me,' Paul said gloomily. And then: 'That was rather how you found things

today, I suppose?'

'Yes,' Marigold said with perhaps unnecessarily fervour. 'Yes, it was.'

There was another short silence between them while they pursued their own thoughts. Then,

trying very hard to keep her voice absolutely steady, Marigold said:

'Do you know what I'd try to do?'

He looked interrogative.

'I'd try to pin some other incident on to him, Something quite different from this—this week-

end affair with the anonymous girl.'

'But, my dear, it's the only absolutely concrete evidence we've got!'

'But you say there were other—incidents. This was only one of many. Why don't you try to

get some information about one of the other times? Why don't you, Paul?'

She wondered if she sounded a little too much as though she were pleading. But it seemed to

pass.

'Why, Marigold, there's nothing more difficult than trying to piece stale evidence together. It

was only a chance that I got on to this damned weekend, as it was. Lindley's pretty good at

covering his tracks, you know. He's no fool.'

I know,' Marigold agreed bitterly. 'He profits by fools instead.'

'Eh?' Paul looked amused and slightly taken aback. 'Well, yes, you're perfectly right, of

course. That's exactly what he does. You sounded almost personally vicious then.'

She swallowed nervously.

'Well, I feel personally vicious,' she said quickly. 'He's behaved abominably to the two

people I care most about. It's enough to make one vicious.'

'That's true.' He smiled at her, and she was afraid that he was going to change the subject.

'I think I'm right, you know, Paul,' she exclaimed, hastily dragging the conversation back to

the point she wanted. 'It would be well worth your while to try to get additional evidence.'

'I'm going to try to get additional evidence,' he assured her carelessly. 'I'm going to track

down our anonymous lady of the hotel some how.'

'I didn't mean that!' Her exclamation was so sharp that he looked at her in astonishment. And,

recovering herself, she added hastily, 'I— I meant it would be a good thing to try to find out

some other chapter in Lindley's adventures.'

'Oh!' He grinned at her affectionately. 'Pretiv pleased with your own strategy, darling, aren't

you? You want me to stick to your theory.'

'It's not that, Paul. At least, perhaps it is. Bui I do think that if you could present Lindley with

evidence about some incident he had nearly for gotten, there would be a much poorer defence

than if you stick to this—this hotel business, about which he's fully warned by now.'

'Something in that,' he agreed good naturedly.

'There's quite a lot in it,' Marigold insisted. 'I'm sure he's going to be ready with a pretty good

story to counter that charge. You had much better take him on unprepared ground.'

'Excellent in theory,' Paul admitted. 'But the deuce of it is that I hardly know where to start

sleuthing if I go further back in his unsavoury past. It wasn't until fairly lately, if you remember,

that Stephanie let me take an interest in what he was doing. And before that my attitude just was

that as he gave me a pain in the neck, the less I saw or knew of him the better. That's a bit

cramping to the sort of investigation you're suggesting.'

'I know. But at least it's worth thinking about, isn't it, Paul? It's worth trying.''

'Why, Marigold dear,' he put his hand lightly over hers, 'I believe you take this damned busi-

ness to heart even more than I do. You mustn't distress yourself so much.'

'I—I'm not distressed,' Marigold said most untruthfully. 'Only I don't want a good idea

wasted. Particularly when Stephanie's happiness may depend on it.' Then, at the mention of

Stephanie, she remembered her work and the time. 'Oh, Paul, I must go! I've had a ridiculously

extended lunch-time, as it is. They'll think I'm a shirker if I go on like this. I must go, dear, but

think over what I've suggested, won't you? Please think it over.'

'I will. Of course I will,' he promised. 'I'll wait and settle this up, if you really must go. Don't

wait for me. Take a taxi if you don't know the way back from here. It's on me, as I've stolen half

your lunch-time.'

And, with an affectionate and amused smile, he watched her go.

Stephanie raised humorously reproachful eye brows over the time which Marigold had been

away, but she accepted the eager apologies indulgently.

'All right. It's a special occasion since your honeymoon only ended this morning,' she agreed.

'I suppose Paul managed to track you down.'

'Yes. And I'm ashamed to confess, Stephanie, that we entirely forgot the time.'

'It's been known to happen to other people in similar circumstances,' Stephanie said, smiling.

'But I'll have to tell him to take you to lunch only once a week if this is going to happen.'

'It won't happen again,' Marigold promised seriously. 'Besides, I shan't be lunching with him

in the usual way and going to see a friend.'

'Oh, yes, of course. You met your friend all right?' Stephanie was mildly interested. 'Don't

tell me this involved two lunches.'

'No, of course not,' Marigold said, wishing the very simplest thing were not capable of such

ridiculous complications, as soon as one deviated from the truth. 'My—first lunch appointment

more or less fell through at the last minute. That was why I lunched with Paul instead.'

To her relief, Stephanie accepted the explanation with a careless nod. And after that, she

spent the rest of the afternoon working hard —partly to ease her conscience about the long

lunch-time, partly because intensive work helped one to forget certain things which were best

forgotten.

In spite of everything, there was a deep and satisfying pleasure in 'going home' to Paul's flat

for the first time. It was a pleasant, well- furnished, very masculine sort of place, which he had

occupied for some while before his marriage. When they had first discussed a home together, he

had seemed to think his own flat unsuitable for the purpose. But, after inspecting it, Marigold

had declared it would do perfectly for the time, and that it would be absurd to make new

arrangements in a hurry.

Paul had been very willing to be talked over to this point of view, having the reluctance of

most busy men to making any change that was not strictly necessary. So a few modifications had

been made, and now it had become Marigold's home as well as his.

It was on a very modest scale compared with Lindley's luxurious abode, nor did it boast the

services of a discreet and silent manservant Instead, a severe, garrulous and far from discreet

elderly housekeeper provided 'service' for Paul and what she described as 'my two other gentle

men,' who lived in the other two flats in the house.

As she went home on this first evening, Man gold was not sorry that domestic details were

out of her hands for the moment. She felt far more exhausted than was justified by the mere work

of the day, and could only suppose it was the emotional strain which she had undergone.

She thought, as she went in at the door of what was now her home, how extraordinary it was

that some people were supposed to live a life of deceit and pretence because they almost

preferred the thrill of it, or considered it was worth it because of material advantages to be

gained.

'They must be crazy,' she thought wearily, because nothing in the world seemed more

desirable to her at that moment than a straightforward, ordinary existence where one had no need

to tell lies—nor wonder breathlessly if they would be believed.

Paul was not yet home when she came in, and, having washed and changed, she sat down in

one of his heavy leather armchairs by the fire, and looked round with a sort of timid happiness,

inch hardly dared to assert itself and yet refused to be entirely denied.

In the cosy safety of Paul's sitting-room, surrounded by the personal belongings which spoke

so eloquently of him, it was not so difficult to believe in a tranquil and happy future—even

though somewhere in the far distance.

Inevitably, for the hundredth time, she found herself going over the familiar ground of what

they had said to Lindley and Lindley had said to her and she had said to Paul—and all the

endless procession of question and answer. It was impossible to fasten her thoughts on anything

else. Hut this time she recalled something which she had forgotten to take into account when she

was going over the ground before. And that was Lindley's approaching departure for America.

She could have cried with impatience and disappointment now to remember that she had not

taken the opportunity of finding out when he was leaving. So much might depend on the length

of time he still remained in England. It was inexcusable of her not to have remembered to make

some skilful enquiry, however anxious and dismayed she had been because of their conversation.

The only information she had was his careless reference, a few days ago, to the fact that his

journey had been postponed. But that might mean everything or nothing. If it had been

postponed for some while, then there was time for any complication to arise. But if the

postponement were a short one, then her immediate difficulties might be over blessedly soon,

and there would be a long period of reprieve while he was away.

Oh, why had she neglected such a possible source of comfort? She felt now that she would

have given almost anything for the assurance that Lindley was going away at the end of this

week.

After all, once he was gone, there would be time and opportunity to discover alternative

grounds for that divorce. And Paul, who was very much a man of action, would probably find the

idea of further investigation much more acceptable if he had an idle period to fill in while

Lindley was away.

She remembered—with some sense of guilt for having suppressed the information—that Paul

had no idea of Lindley's impending departure. If he could remain ignorant of it until after

Lindley had gone then, it seemed to Marigold—in her anxiety to snatch at any comforting delay

—her chances of escape from the horrible tangle would be immeasurably increased.

Oh, why hadn't she secured that vital information? And was there still any possibility of get-

ting it?

She found suddenly that she was no longer lying back comfortably in her deep armchair. She

was sitting forward on the edge of the seat, as though poised for sudden action, and her eyes

instinctively sought the telephone.

It was impossible to telephone him, of course. Quite impossible. What could she say to him if

.he did telephone? It would be useless to ask her question outright. He would never supply the

information if he had any hint that it was of urgent importance to her. And he could hardly doubt

the urgency of any query which made her telephone to him after all that had happened.

Marigold bit her underlip and tried to look away from the telephone. But she felt instinctively

that there was the only hope. After all, it was the one link with the outside world. Otherwise her

world was this dear, cosy, kindly room.

With quite surprisingly steady fingers, she dialled Lindley's number.

Nothing happened.

With her nerves beginning to tingle with pleasantly, Marigold dialled the number again Once

more she looked at the clock. In her mind| eye she could see that manservant clearing up hastily

and preparing to leave the flat. She knew he was alone for those precious few minute. It only she

could get through to him, she felt S U R E she could make her enquiries and be reassured

Still there was no answering ring at the others end of the wire, and Marigold exclaimed aloud

—

'Oh, and Paul will be in any moment now!'

With an angry jerk she dialled '100,' and a polite voice immediately enquired if it could help

her.

'I've been trying for the last half-hour to get this number,' Marigold told the polite voice, with

considerable exaggeration. 'Please see if you can get it for me.'

The polite voice said it would, and Marigold heard sundry encouraging rattles on the line.

Then at last the connection was evidently made, and the bell began to buzz.

At the same moment she heard Paul's key in the door.

She could have screamed with vexation and nervousness, but there was only one thing to be

done. With a sense of frustration greater than she had known since she was a child, Marigold

carefully replaced the receiver, and turned agreed Paul.

'I'm sorry I'm so late, dearest. I really couldn't help it,' he said apologetically as he came in.

'It's all right. It doesn't matter,' Marigold assured him, suppressing a desire to say how

relently she wished he could have been ten minutes later still. Such a good chance might never

occur again. She felt superstitiously that such a good chance never would occur again. Well, it

couldn't be helped. Better that he should come in then than when she was in the middle of the

conversation.

She sat down slowly by the fire again, listening with a convincing smile of interest to what

Paul was saying, while all the time her thoughts were on the opportunity she had just missed.

'Well, I'll go and change. I won't be ten minutes,' he promised. 'Have you seen the evening

paper?' He tossed it over to her.

As he did so, the telephone rang just beside him, and, without even noticing her nervous

movement forward, he picked up the receiver.

'Hello! What? Wrong number, I think. I haven't been asking for that number. Eh? Oh, wait a

moment.' He glanced over at his wife.

'Have you been enquiring for a number, Marigold?' "

For a second both 'Yes' and 'No' seemed equally dangerous answers. Then she realised that

'No' must inevitably entail a revealing discussion with the telephone operator.

'Yes,' she said in a rather husky whisper, and came forward to take the receiver from Paul

hand.

As she did so, she wondered if she read suspicion in the quick glance which he gave her.

After all, it was only a few hours since they had discussed Lindley's telephone number.

Thousand-, of people had similar numbers, of course, but—

And then she forgot to wonder about that, or about what she was to say to the servant at the

other end of the wire. For it was Lindley's cool, amused voice which said:

'Oh, so it's you, Marigold? Well, what can I do for you, my dear? I'm really most flattered by

the amount of time and attention you seem willing to bestow on me these days.'

CHAPTER IX

I N her first frenzy of fear, Marigold was ready to drop the receiver, or at least to replace it

without saying a word. But Paul—his attention most unfortunately caught by a headline in the

newspaper she had thrown down—was still in the room, and she had to behave in some way that

would appear reasonably normal.

Yet it was impossible to say anything to Lindley which would not be understandable to Paul.

And Paul, even if his suspicions were not aroused, must at least be very much alive to anything

which could refer to the day's somewhat peculiar happenings.

'Hello,' she said rather faintly into the telephone when it had become impossible to remain

silent any longer.

'Oh, hello, my dear. Is this as far as we have got?' She could hear from his tone how much

amused he was.

'I didn't really expect to get through to you.' That was a possible remark to make to anyone,

and would surely give him some hint that she could not speak freely.

'Didn't you? Then you mean it's truthfully a shock to hear my voice—in the circumstance.

'Well, yes, it is.' If only Paul would put down that newspaper and go off to change!

'We're not alone, I take it?'

'No, that's right.'

'But you are very anxious to speak to me about something?'

She remembered then that she was not in the least anxious to speak to him. It was to his

servant that she had hoped so much to speak.

'No, it's not important.'

'Oh, come, Mari! You wouldn't ring me up about unimportant matters at this stage of out —

friendship. Even I can't flatter myself this-- anything but urgent necessity would prompt you to

do that. But you can't tell me what it is at the moment?'

'No, I can't.' What else could she say?

'The inconvenient husband is in the back ground, eh?'

'I shouldn't put it that way,' she retort at with more sharpness than her tone should have held

for a friendly conversation. And Paul glanced up from his newspaper for a moment.

'Careful,' Lindley's voice said mockingly, and she hated him for knowing so surely what the

situation was.

She wondered if she dared ring off with a peremptory 'Good-bye.' But she knew that she was

really in Lindley's hands now, and that he Was perfectly capable of telephoning back, even at the

risk of Paul's answering the telephone again. She was unspeakably relieved therefore to hear him

say:

'I think we had better postpone our conversation, don't you?'

'Yes.' She tried not to sound too Niger. 'Yes, another time will do.'

'Then you had better give me your office phone number.'

'Oh, no,' she said quickly, with an inductive dread of his being able to get in touch with her at

any time of the day.

'Much safer, Marigold. Then I can telephone to you and continue this most interesting

conversation when the husband IN safely out of the way.'

She hated and loathed the suggestion in his tone that it was amusing to have a secret with her

from her husband.

'I'll telephone you another time,' she said coldly and finally, and was about to replace the

receiver when he said:

'Wait, Mari. It really would be better to wail and hear what I have to say. I suppose you're at

Paul's flat, and it would be a waste of time—and other things—if I had to telephone back to you

this evening and ask for that office number. No doubt he too would be able to give it to me, but

the answered my call, he might want to know why I needed your number. And explanations are

so—tedious, aren't they?'

Marigold felt the most dreadful, clammy chill creep down her back. In that moment she

thought she knew exactly what it was like to In- blackmailed. At any rate, she knew what it was

like to be at the mercy of a completely merciless man.

She made her inevitable decision quite speedily after that. She even infused a certain credible

friendliness into her tone, in case Paul should be listening with any real attention by now.

'My office number? Oh, yes, of course.' And she gave it to him, pronouncing it quite slowly

and clearly because he said, 'Wait a moment while I write that down.'

Then the mocking voice added: 'Thank you so much. Good-bye, Mari. I'm very glad to have

that number.'

And she was free to say, 'Good-bye,' and ring off.

At the same time Paul tossed down the newspaper and remarked.

'You had a pretty chatty friend on the phone, didn't you?'

'What do you mean?' She tried not to sound startled, though she felt that any remark which

Paul made about the conversation must surely be fraught with danger.

'Why, only that you didn't seem able to get a word in edgeways,' he said with a laugh. '

"Yes," "no" and "really" seemed to be about your share of the conversation.'

'Oh!' She managed to smile rather faintly and stiffly. 'Yes. She—she does rather monopolise

the conversation.'

'Does she?' Paul said. And she thought he gave her an odd little glance before he went out of

the room, which immediately made her wonder, in panic, if he knew perfectly well it was no 'she'

who had been talking.

How stupid of her to have over-elaborated once more! Why couldn't she have left it at 'he,'

without adding an unnecessary lie through sheer guilty nervousness? Quite possibly, now she

came to think of it, Paul had not only heard the operator speak at the beginning of the call, but a

word or two from Lindley too.

Marigold sank down in her chair again with a little groan and pressed her hands over her

face. But even that slight physical relief was not to be allowed for more than a minute or two.

Paul might come back again at any moment, and, however desperate and frightened she felt, it

was essential to appear happy and carefree.

Was she not a happy bride, sharing her first evening at home with her husband?

After that, strangely enough, a few uneventful days drifted past, in which Marigold was

unbelievably happy, in spite of all her anxiety. It was a fragile, perilous happiness, of course, but

all the more precious because it might vanish at a touch.

If there had been no Lindley in the background, no Nemesis called up by her own folly,

Marigold would have been the happiest girl alive.

But she knew, when she allowed herself to face the facts, that all this was only a lull in the

storm. Presently there would be some further sign from Lindley, and it could hardly herald

anything but another crisis.

It was late one afternoon of the following week when he chose to take a hand in her affairs

again. By good chance Stephanie, who had come into her room to talk over some question in

connection with the records, had just left her when the telephone bell rang.

To be sure, it rang often enough, but never without giving an unpleasant little jar to her

nerves, and she told herself that it was really no surprise when she heard Lindley's voice again.

'Mari, is that you? Oh, how fortunate to find you in. Look here, my dear, I want to have a talk

with you.'

'About what?' Marigold asked, so coldly that one might have supposed that she held all the

cards in this unpleasant game.

He laughed, perhaps at what he considered her effrontery.

'Well, we have a conversation to finish, for one thing,' he reminded her.

'I've nothing more to say to you,' Marigold said curtly.

'But there is your reason for ringing me the other night. I've never heard about that, you

know.'

'There's nothing to hear about,' Marigold assured him. 'I've found out what I wanted to know

from someone else.'

'Really? Oh, I'm sorry. I should have liked to be of service to you. But I have something to

discuss with you.'

'You'd better tell me what it is now, then.' She was surprised and pleased to find that she

could speak to him so crisply.

'I'm afraid it can't be discussed over the phone.'

'I'm afraid it will have to be,' Marigold told him.

Then she wondered if she had gone too far, because there was a curious and frightening

silence. It lengthened, and her tightened nerves prompted her to ask sharply:

'Are you still there?'

'Oh, yes. I was re-lighting my cigarette. It had gone out.'

She could imagine him so easily, smiling away to himself, calculating to a nicety the effect of

his words or his silences.

'Well, what did you want to say to me?'

'That we must arrange to meet.'

'It's quite impossible,' Marigold said with all the firmness she could muster.

'I don't think so, Mari. I could even—call, if you prefer it that way.'

Immediately she was conscious of that dreadful, clammy chill again. He was not even threat-

ening her, in so many words. Merely indicating that he had it in his power to wreck everything,

unless she did what she was told.

'Lindley, can't you possibly say what you have to say over the telephone?' She had descended

to pleading now, and she knew it was fatal, but what else could she say?

'I'm afraid not. When can I see you?'

'I—don't know,' she said despairingly.

'It must be soon. I leave for the States in a day or two.'

Her heart gave such a leap at that that it almost seemed to choke her. He was leaving in a day

or two! Then some sort of relief was almost in sight. Nothing could be overwhelmingly terrible if

that were true. It was the news she had been waiting for—and been willing to do almost anything

to hear. And he had given it to her himself, quite casually.

'I—didn't know you were going so soon.'

'No. It's unexpected. And I must see you. Somewhere where we can talk quietly. Can you

arrange to stay overtime this evening and I'll come along to you?'

'No!' she exclaimed sharply. But, even as she said it, she knew they might do very much

worse than that. Paul was working late that evening, and only ten minutes ago she had said

something to Stephanie about staying one evening and getting up to date with one part of the

work which had been neglected by her predecessor. It might be simple to arrange. Much simpler

than going to his flat again, or courting some sort of dramatic encounter in a restaurant.

'What is your suggestion, then?' He sounded slightly impatient and she said quickly:

'Wait a moment. I might arrange it.'

'Good girl!' He sounded amused and approving.

'When could you come? Seven? Half-past?'

'Say seven o'clock. Will there be anyone there but ourselves? Anyone who will talk, I mean?'

'Only the caretaker. I'll tell him just that a friend is calling to take me out to dinner, and that

I'm staying on to work until then.'

'Really, Mari, you're awfully good at this sort of thing,' he told her mockingly. 'I find it hard

to believe that you're a beginner.'

She saw no reason to answer that, and merely enquired shortly:

'Do you know how to get here?'

'I can find it. Expect me about seven o'clock.'

She rang off without bothering to say goodbye, and sat there, with her hand still on the tele-

phone, wondering already if she had been foolish lo let him arrange things this way. But she had

to let him arrange it some way. She had no choice about that. And she was terrified of any further

meeting with him in public, for it seemed that, however unlikely the circumstances, some irony

of fate always involved her in an unforeseen crisis. And, in her present state of mind, it appeared

to her not at all improbable that Paul would come strolling into whatever restaurant they chose,

or that Stephanie and David Trevlin would choose just that place in which to dine before going

to the theatre.

As it was, she had some little difficulty with Stephanie when she announced that she intended

to stay that evening and work.

'Oh, Marigold, I shouldn't! It's horrid and lonely in this place by oneself. I know. I stayed

once, and decided not to do it again.'

'Nonsense!' Marigold laughed. 'I'm not a bit nervous. And anyway, what is there to be

nervous about?'

'Oh, nothing, of course. I just don't like it. There's Sanderson within call, I know, but —well,

I just don't like it.'

'Well, I don't mind it at all,' Marigold assured her with considerable lack of truth. 'And I'll

feel much happier if I do get these books straight It means a lot of extra work each day until

they're up to date.'

'Are you sure?' Stephanie Looked doubtful.

'Yes. And this evening is just the time for it Paul said he didn't know what time he'd be home.

Probably not until really late. I'll ring up and leave a message that I'll be late too, in case- he gets

home before me, but I 'm sure he won't.'

Stephanie still looked dissatisfied.

'I'd stay too, only I'm going out with David tonight, and we meant to have dinner at—'

'Why, of course! Don't be absurd, Stephanie. There's nothing much in staying late at one's

office on an odd evening. You go on out with David and enjoy yourself.'

The very idea of Stephanie remaining too, in the circumstances, made Marigold so emphatic

in her refusal that Stephanie laughed, finally convinced!

'Oh, all right. If you feel like that. Get Sanderson to bring you up a hot drink or something if

you're here really late.'

Marigold promised that she would, and finally got rid of the persistent and inconveniently

concerned Stephanie.

She was not at all nervous, in the ordinary sense of the word, and though the various sounds

of departure made her feel slightly melancholy, in view of the interview which was awaiting her,

Marigold certainly had no sinking of the heart just because the big old house grew quiet, and the

sound of her crackling fire grew louder in contrast.

At last the heavy front door closed for the last time, and she settled down to some

concentrated work—not only because she had stayed for that declared purpose, but because it

took her thoughts from the unpleasant scene ahead.

She was actually surprised at the lateness of the hour when at six o'clock the fatherly care-

taker came in with a large cup of cocoa and a slab of home-made cake—in the making of which

his wife excelled.

'I didn't know it was so late, Sanderson.' She looked up from her work and smiled at him.

'No, ma'am. Mrs. Marne told me you'd be staying a bit, but I suppose you'll be going vet y

shortly?'

'Well, not for another hour or so.'

'Oh,' commented the caretaker in such an uncertain tone that Marigold glanced at him again.

'Why? It doesn't matter, does it, Sanderson^ I mean, you don't want to do anything in thin

room, do you?'

'No, Mrs. Irving, but me and the missus were going to the pictures. We always go of a

Tuesday and—'

'But you can go! Of course you can go. Don't bother about me. I'll be perfectly all right.'

'Well, if you're sure—'

'Of course I'm sure,' said Marigold, who suddenly found she felt anything but sure when she

thought of interviewing Lindley alone in this place.

'Well, I've stoked up the furnace, and locked up everywhere. You've nothing to do but bang

the front door as you go out and make sure it's shut.'

'I'll make sure,' Marigold promised.

And then the old man went away, and she slowly stirred her cocoa.

It was ridiculous to feel uneasy. Lindley might a plausible and heartless scoundrel, but he

certainly was not the kind to resort to physical violence in any circumstances. All that was

Involved was a talk—quite possibly an unpleasant talk—but certainly nothing more. All the

same, Marigold was very sorely tempted to put her papers together, don her hat and coat, and go

home, leaving Lindley to make what liked of the empty house. But with that would go every

possible chance coming to terms with him. And certainly he would not be bothering to come

along here and talk to her if there were not some new aspect of the situation to be discussed

Anything might have happened. It might even conceivably be something to her advantage.

Something which would make the situation just a little less frightening and uncertain.

And then his saying that he was leaving the country in a day or two! That seemed to Mari-

gold, at the moment, to promise limitless possibilities of escape. If she saw him this evening and

could stave off immediate action, she would gain precious time, during which any solution might

arise.

He might meet someone in the States whom he really cared about. He might want his own

freedom then—be glad to let the divorce me through, after all. It was not specially like but

stranger things had happened. He might decide to stay in America indefinitely—

But then, she remembered, that would hardly solve Stephanie's difficulties, so that would not

do.

With a sigh, Marigold returned to her accounts, but this time the columns of figures refused to

add up to their correct totals.

Her attention was only half on her work for now. She was listening for the sound of the bell

which would announce his arrival. And then she would have to make the final and irrevocution

decision to admit him. She would have to go down and bring him through the darkened! blacked-

out house to this brightly lit room of hers, which looked so pleasant and innocent now, but

would, she knew, take on a different and slightly sinister aspect when it contained Lindley as

well as herself.

He was punctual, almost to a minute. The hands of her little office clock pointed to one

minute past seven as the bell sounded through the silent house.

She started rather violently at the sound, but after that she was perfectly calm as she went

downstairs, switching on the light as she went. The well of the staircase seemed stiflingly warm

as her, but that was probably because the blood was singing in her head, and when she opened

the heavy front door, a rush of stingingly cold air mined to come with Lindley.

'Phew! It's warm in here,' he remarked, as casually as though he were in the habit of calling

every evening. And she said, just as calmly:

'Yes. The caretaker stoked up the furnace an hour ago. I expect he rather overdid it. Come

this way. We may as well go up to my room. There's only a fire there—no radiator.'

He followed her up the stairs, remarking with a laugh as he did so:

'So this is where you earn an honest living?' 'Yes.'

'And Stephanie too?' 'Yes.'

'Queer taste—looking after other people's children.' She felt a rush of fury for him at that. By

his tone he presumed to despise Stephanie, whose life he had done his best to ruin. She

remembered with cold clarity how he had wished him dead, not more than an hour ago, and she

thought: 'It was the most sensible wish I ever had. He doesn't even know what decency is.'

He looked round her room with amusement and interest, and remarked:

'It was nice of you to agree to see me here.' 'I had very little choice,' she said dryly as he sat

down in the chair she indicated. 'No, that's true.'

He seemed in no special hurry to open whatever subject he had come to discuss, and after A

moment she said sharply:

'Well, do you mind telling me why it was so necessary to see me? I've had some trouble to

arrange this—this interview and—

'And naturally you want to know what it's all about, and get it over as soon as possible, eh?'

He smiled at her.

'That just about describes it,' she agreed.

'Well then, Mari, I've come to make a proposition to you. Something I've been thinking over

carefully in the last few days.'

In spite of herself, she felt her heart begin to thump with wholly illogical hope.

'Something to—to do with your divorce?' She tried to speak casually.

Indirectly, yes. At any rate, something to do with the relationship of all four of us, as it now

exists.'

'All four of us?'

'Why, yes. Paul and Stephanie are in this too, you know.'

'Yes. Yes, of course they are.'

She caught her breath and waited with an impatience she found hard to conceal.

He looked across at her with those slightly smiling, watchful eyes.

'You're very fond of Paul, aren't you?'

'Of—course. You didn't need to come here to ask me that.'

He laughed.

'No, naturally not. I was only wondering how valuable his happiness might be to you.'

'I don't know that that's any business of yours,' she said with angry impatience.

'But it is. It enters into what I'm going to say.' He paused for a moment, as though choosing

his words, and then he went on. 'I'm leaving for America in a few days '

'You've told me that already, and I've never been more glad to hear anything,' she interrupted

savagely.

'And I've been wondering,' he went on coolly, 'if you'd care to come with mo.'

'Are you mad?' Marigold asked coldly.

'No, Mari, very sane. And the proposition I'm making to you is just that. Would you care to

come with me to the States, as my—secretary, shall we say? For, of course, you would have to

have an official status. No, wait a moment'—for Marigold had made a furious little effort to

interrupt. 'You say that Paul's happiness is of great concern to you. But when he finds out—a:, he

must find out during the divorce proceedings—just what his wife was doing before he met her, I

don't know how much of his happiness you suppose will be left. Then you told me once that

Stephanie's happiness was of some interest to you—'

'I don't know what all this has to do with your preposterous suggestion about America,' she

interrupted. She was very white by now and her breath was coming unnaturally fast.

'Why, you see, Mari, if you decide to come with me to America—and I can promise you a

very good time—I will undertake to let that divorce go through on evidence other than what I

might call "the hotel incident." Stephanie will get her divorce without trouble or opposition, and

Paul will never know that the girl with me and that dramatic occasion was his own wife.'

'I hardly see how that will comfort him if meanwhile I have gone off to America with you.'

'Ah, well, of course, there would have to be a main—lack of frankness about your

explanation of that,' he admitted with his most charming mile. 'Paul is anchored to his job in

London. It might not to be outside the bounds of possibility to invent a dying parent in the north

of Scotland or—'

'My parents are both dead,' she said curtly. 'I thought you knew that.'

'Of course. I'd forgotten. We could make up something else, no doubt, if we really gave any

thought to it.'

'You know perfectly well there's no story that would hold water. And in any case, do you

suppose that for anything in the world I would go with you for so much as a day? And why do

you even want it? You made out only a few days ago that there was nothing that would induce

you to give up the pleasure of spoiling Stephanie's divorce suit against you. Now you speak as

though you're willing to toss the whole thing aside for a whim.'

'Oh, not a whim, Mari,' he said, with a protesting smile.

'For what, then?'

'For the pleasure of your company.'

'I don't think you can set a very high value on that,' she said scornfully.

'So high a value, my dear, that I'm willing to forgo the pleasure of spoiling Stephanie's

divorce suit, as you put it, for the chance of four week in your company. For it wouldn't be more,

have to be back within the month. Come, Mari, think carefully. It ought not to be difficult to find

a reason for a month's absence and——'

'No, I tell you! You must be crazy even to think of it. Nothing would make me agree.

Nothing!'

She got to her feet suddenly, for she saw he was going to stand up too, and all at once she

was afraid at the thought of him towering over her. She was afraid, too, at the extraordinary

atmosphere which the room had taken on. It also had become over-poweringly hot, like the rest

of the house —or else it was the excitement and fear had again sent the blood rushing hotly to

her head.

It seemed to her that there were strange noises in the house—not at all as though they were

alone, but as though some busy, unseen presence were rustling and creaking through passages

and stairway.

And more than all that was the sudden, frightening consciousness that the man who had risen

slowly to his feet was no longer the cool, self- contained, mocking person she knew, but a pas-

sionate, purposeful, not very well controlled adversary, who might love her or hate her with

equal intensity.

Instinctively, she backed away from him towards the door. Not for all the gold in the world

could she have turned her back on him, though the impulse to flee was almost more than she

could control. She felt the door behind her, and she groped with one hand for the handle.

As she did so, he leant forward and caught her by the other wrist, lightly, but so that she

could not get away without a struggle.

'Listen to me, Mari,' he said, with a sort of impatient pleading. 'I'll give you a more wonderful

time than that staid fool Irving ever dreamed of giving you. I'll make you remember how much

you loved me before he came blundering in. I'll guarantee to make you want to stay with me

when we come back from America, so that there'll be no need for any stories to explain your

absence or justify your silence. You'll have cast your net in more colourful waters and——

He stopped suddenly, because she had brought her other hand round from the door-handle

and struck him full on the mouth.

'Don't you dare speak to me like that! Don't you dare talk of Paul like that! You're the most

infamous, conscienceless beast I know. Let me go. I've had enough——'

'But I've not had enough,' he exclaimed roughly, and with one movement he jerked her

against him, holding her so that it was impossible to escape, while he bent her back and kissed

her on her mouth, slowly, bruisingly and insultingly.

She struggled madly in his grasp, realising in terror that her strength was absolutely nothing

beside his. And with the horror of that discovery there came something else, which was as much

of a shock. From the floor below came the strange and unmistakable sound of crashing glass.

'God in heaven!' He released her abruptly. 'What's that?'

She didn't stop to answer him. Wrenching herself from his loosened grasp, she tore open the

door.

As she did so, thick billows of smoke came rolling into the room, and in the draught from the

broken window and the open door, an enormous, unbelievable sheet of flame roared up the well

of the staircase, as though it would devour the very walls of the house.

CHAPTER X

I N the sudden change from one acute terror to another, Marigold cried out in fear, and at the

same moment he exclaimed:

'My God! The whole place is ablaze!'

She knew then, in a horrid flash of understanding, the reason for that strange, stifling heat

which she had noticed more than once. It was nothing to do with imagination or inner

excitement. The whole basement, with its old- fashioned furnace, had been smouldering under

them. Now the place had burst into these roaring, terrifying flames, and their way down the stairs

was cut off.

'Quick! Shut the door, you little fool! That draught's simply feeding the fire.'

Lindley was no longer the terrifying assailant. He was the one ally in a frightful emergency.

Unhesitatingly, she slammed the door at his order and turned to face him.

But he was already across the room, tearing down the curtain, trying to pierce the outer

darkness and discover their chance of escape that way.

'It's no good that way, Lindley! There's a theer drop of two stories.'

'You're sure?'

'Yes, quite sure.'

'Where's the fire-escape? There must be one in n place of this sort.'

'It's—the other side of the house. We'd have to cross the landing.' Her voice faltered slightly

as she remembered the roaring furnace which had once been the stairs.

'All right. That's our only chance. Come on!'

He had led her by the wrist again, but this time there was no familiarity or offensiveness

about it. He was merely impressing on her the urgency of the occasion and the necessity of swift

obedience.

'Now, when I open the door, get out as quickly as you can. We don't want this through

draught for more than a second.'

She obeyed him to the letter, though she was appalled by the hideous giant puff of hot air that

rushed towards her the moment the door was opened. There was, she remembered, a high wind

blowing outside. No wonder the gusts from the open window fanned the flames to such terrifying

activity. But help would be here soon. It must be here soon.

'Come on.' Though he had closed the door behind them, shutting out the light, there was

sufficient light from the flames to show what they must do.

A short corridor from Marigold's room led on to the landing, and the stairs—now a mass of

flame, like some hellish lift-shaft—ran up to the centre of it.

'You say we've got to get to the other side of that?' Lindley's voice was grim beside her.

'Yes.'

'God help us!' he muttered savagely, without probably intending any real appeal for

providential aid.

'It's not—possible,' gasped Marigold, partly because the heat and smoke parched her throat

and seemed to suck the very breath out of her lungs, and partly because she was so sheerly

terrified at the thought of somehow getting round that crumbling shell of landing which now

little more than edged the flaming stairway.

'It's got to be possible. Come on.'

The rather thin, strong fingers round her wrist were irresistible. He half dragged, hall guided

her along the passage, and, with a curl, 'Go first. You're lighter,' launched her on her perilous

journey round what was left of the binding.

'Keep your face to the wall,' he shouted above the roar of the flames. 'And hold your damned

dress so that it doesn't blow outwards.'

She hardly knew that she obeyed him. She only knew that the floor either seemed to, or did

in truth, bend under her weight as she edged her way round, trying to balance speed with caution.

When she was halfway round to the short passage which corresponded to the one on her side

of the landing, he followed her. He came more quickly than she, for the need for speed was more

urgent, and caution had to be disregarded. A fresh danger threatened them now, for the roof over

the stairway had caught, and the beams across it were blazing. It was as though the outside shell

of the house, with its side-passages, enclosed only a pit of flame that reached to the roof.

As she gained the comparative haven of the second passage she tried to call out that she was

safe, but her voice refused to come from her cracking throat. He was close behind her, she knew,

and as she brushed the sweat and hair from her eyes, she saw that he was only a couple of yards

away. Two seconds more and he too would be safe.

And then, even as she watched him, a section of blazing rafter tore loose from the ceiling

with a rending sound, and caught him a fearful blow on the side of the head before plunging

down into the inferno below.

With a shriek which was drowned in the confusion of sounds around her, she leant forward

and snatched at his reeling figure, dragging him to safety at the very moment when he would

have staggered outward towards the fire.

He collapsed at her feet in the narrow passageway in a dead faint and, crouching down beside

him, Marigold knew a few moments of relief from the choking heat and smoke.

But she knew that the reprieve was only one of seconds. Already fresh billows of smoke

were beginning to make the passage a death trap. Somehow she had to reach the window in the

room beyond, where the fire-escape led to safety.

Hardly more than five minutes could have passed since they first discovered the fire. Yet she

seemed to have lived through a lifetime, and the fire seemed to have consumed a third of the

house. If she were ever to reach safety—if they were ever to reach safety—she must act with all

the speed and strength she had.

Marigold wasted a few precious seconds trying to recall him to consciousness, but it was

obvious that he had passed beyond reach of any cries or entreaties.

Gasping and sweating, she staggered to her feet and, taking him under the shoulders, she

somehow managed to drag his dead weight a few yards. She would never have believed that any

man could be so heavy. This was like the most dreadful nightmare that imagination could devise.

Everything was there—the terror, the nameless danger, the dead weight holding one back so that

one's crawling steps towards safety seemed to measure out eternity.

Once she stumbled and fell beside him again, and in that moment, with the clarity of light

thrown on a white sheet, she remembered what she had thought only an hour ago:

'If he died tonight, I shouldn't be sorry. It would be the perfect solution for all of us. . . . He

doesn't even know what decency is.'

And here was the solution. Here, in her own hands.

Every second that she lingered over this desperate attempt to rescue him reduced her own

chances of escape. If she left him now, he would never know anything else. No one could live

long in this choking smoke. He would be blotted out —just like that—and they would be safe, all

three of them. Stephanie, herself and Paul. Ami at the thought of Paul, she suddenly found that

the tears were running down her face and sin was sobbing aloud.

What standard of right and wrong could possibly demand that she should risk her own life to rescue a man who had done what Lindley had done? By what possible form of justice could it be right to restore to him the power to blackmail, insult and torment her?

He had forfeited his right to live. His single-little chance of life was in her hand—and her hand alone. He was as good as dead if she made no more of this muscle-cracking, lung-tearing effort. She had only to go through that door and that window to safety. . . . She had done her best.

It took no more than a few seconds for the feverish arguments to pass in rapid succession through her throbbing head. She had even scrambled to her feet again in the determination to fight her way out alone.

And then she looked down at the still figure at her feet—vague and shadowy in the alternate glare and smoke.

Oddly enough, it was nothing even remotely sentimental that moved her. No faint recollection of the fact that she had once loved him stirred Marigold's thoughts of him at that moment. She was neither angry with him nor sorry for him. His only significance for her was that he was a living, laboriously breathing creature like herself. He too had fought madly against pursuing death.

She could not leave him while there was an ounce of strength left in her aching, trembling limbs. Two seconds ago she had told herself she had done her best. Now she knew that she would never have done her best unless she got him out too or fell in the struggle to do so.

Almost before she knew she had taken the decision, her hands had closed round his arms once more, and she was backing towards the door, dragging him painfully after her.

When she reached the door and forced it open, she hardly knew which was greater—the relief of the different air inside the room or the menace of the hot draught that reached after her. Dragging her burden in, she dropped him on the floor and closed the door by the simple process of falling against it.

Immediately they were plunged into throbbing darkness, so bewildering that for a moment she could not even remember what the room looked like by daylight and could hardly think when' the window was. She groped for the light switch, but it clicked futilely without anything happening. Evidently the central switch had gone in now.

Talking aloud to herself in ridiculous muttered phrases of encouragement, she groped round

the walls until she felt the heavy velvet curtains. Then, in a frenzy of last-minute terror, she tore

at these.

They were open at last, and so was the window. She hung out, drawing long, sobbing gasps

of fresh, reviving air. And as she did so, she realised that there were running, hurrying figures

grouping themselves below. She could see their pale, upturned faces in the fitful light from a

sulky moon, which hid itself every few minutes behind hurrying clouds.

She thought she screamed to them, but really she only whispered some sort of appeal. And

then, because her muddled senses grasped the fact that they could not hear her, without grasping

the fact that the sight of her was sufficient to startle them into action, she staggered back to

Lindley and began to drag him across the room, Obsessed with the idea that she had only herself

on whom to rely in this matter of saving him.

She had hardly reached the open window, however, before there were men outside on the

fire-escape. They were clambering in now, taking the intolerable burden from her and helping

her through the window herself.

Then someone picked her up and carried her down the steps, and she must have lost cons-

ciousness for a few minutes, because the next thing she knew was that she was being helped into

an ambulance, and there was a nurse there, and Lindley was also there, lying on a sort of shelf,

which looked so strangely like a ship's bunk that her wearied, muddled mind presented to her the

horrid possibility that perhaps, after all, she was with him, on the way to America.

After a minute or two the nurse gave her something to drink, and then she felt less vague. She

pushed back her wet, tangled hair and said hoarsely:

'He's not dead, is he?' It would have been such an unspeakable waste of effort if he had been.

'Oh, no,' the nurse said cheerfully. 'No, certainly not. Only stunned.' Then, glancing at

Marigold's grimy hand with its wedding ring, she added: 'Is he your husband?'

'No,' Marigold said. She felt she ought to add something to that, but her mind felt too tired for

invention. Then, after a pause, for the sake of appearance, she supposed, she added rather heavily

and quite inaccurately: 'Just a friend.'

The ironical humour of that almost seemed to reach Lindley himself, for he stirred then, mut-

tered something and then opened his eyes.

For a few seconds he lay perfectly still, watching her, while full comprehension quite

obviously came back to him.

He spoke at last. Just a few abrupt words, in rather the same hoarse voice as herself.

'Did you stop me from falling?'

'Falling?' And then, with a shudder she remembered how she had seized hold of him as he

was about to topple over into the fire below. She had forgotten that, in the succeeding crisis

which had piled on top of each other. 'Well, I grabbed hold of you.'

She felt oddly embarrassed at any suggestion of active rescue.

'How did we get here?'

'I dragged you along the passage to the room where the fire-escape was. Then some men

came up the escape and brought us down.'

'You—dragged me? Alone?'

'Yes,' Marigold said, and looked away.

'You could have left me.'

'No,' Marigold said. And that was all.

She thought for a moment that he was going to say something else. Then instead he closed

his eyes again, and she was glad, because she didn't think she could do much more talking either.

There was another odd hiatus, during which she was not very sure what was happening. Then

the unmistakable smell of a hospital was all round her, and everything seemed very white and

very well lighted.

Lindley was no longer there, and the cheerful nurse of the ambulance had given place to

another one, who with speed and skill was helping her to undress. Then she had a blessed,

refreshing bath, and the hideous smell of smoke was even washed from her thick fair hair.

She felt much more herself by then and began to say something about going home. But the

nurse said kindly and firmly:

'Not tonight. You can go home, I expect, after the doctor has seen you tomorrow.'

'But I'm not ill,' Marigold began in a plaintive voice which she hardly recognised as her own,

and she found she was ridiculously and overwhelmingly near tears.

'No, of course you're not ill,' the nurse agreed in that kind, firm voice, which sounded as

though all decisions would be made for Marigold, without her needing to trouble about them.

'But you've had a very unpleasant shock. We don't want any ill-effects.'

It sounded so reasonable that there didn't seem any possibility of argument. But the one thing

which mattered suddenly struggled to the surface.

'I want Paul. I want my husband,' Marigold said, and this time the tears really did come.

'We'll send for him,' the nurse promised. 'As soon as you're comfortably settled in bed, he

shall be sent for.'

And after that, Marigold let them do what they liked. They seemed to know her own affairs

so much better than she did, in this bright, clean, efficient place, that it would be absurd—and an

almost unbearable effort—to argue any further.

When she was in bed—and perhaps, after all, it had been a very good idea to put her there —

she was allowed to give Paul's address and telephone number.

'Tell him I'm quite all right,' she said anxiously. 'Tell him not to worry, or he'll think some-

thing awful has happened.'

She was assured that Paul's peace of mind should be studied, and that he would be with her

as soon as it could be managed.

And then, quite unaccountably, she fell asleep, although she had had every intention of

remaining wide awake until he came.

In the brief period of unconsciousness, Marigold inevitably re-lived the terrible struggle

through which she had gone. And when she finally woke again, she was gasping and half crying.

But, with a relief it was impossible to measure, she realised that Paul was beside her, and that

it was his arm which was supporting her and his voice which was assuring her that she was all

right.

'Oh, Paul!' She clung round his neck like a frightened child. 'Oh, Paul, how wonderful! Is it

really you?'

'Yes, darling. You're all right. There's nothing to be frightened about now. You're quite all

right.' He looked white and unusually stern somehow, and quite unlike his gay, confident self.

'There's nothing—wrong, is there?' She touched his cheek with apprehensive fingers.

'Wrong? No, dearest, of course not. Except that I can't forget that I might have lost you.' And

he kissed her rather hard.

'Oh—yes, I suppose you might.' Until that moment, she had never seriously thought of that.

She had been dreadfully afraid—particularly in those few moments when she was tempted to

leave Lindley and get away—but somehow she had never thought of not seeing Paul again, of

passing beyond his reach.

'I never really thought of that,' she said slowly. And he kissed her again and told her not to

talk.

She obeyed him, at any rate for a while, lying there in the circle of his arm, and slowly

savouring the delicious fact that she was safe and with him again. Presently she would want to

talk, to tell him all about how it happened. How she stayed late working, and wondered why the

place seemed so warm. And then Lindley came——

With a jerk her thoughts stopped following their rather dreamy path.

And then Lindley came.

And he had not only come—he had stayed. He had been caught there too—rescued too —

brought to the hospital too. And his presence would have to be explained.

But how?

Laboriously, Marigold's thoughts began to toil round the familiar circle of explanation and

invention. But she felt terribly stupid. She could think of nothing which would adequately

explain Lindley's presence in the house at that time in the evening.

Surreptitiously she glanced at Paul. But his expression betrayed nothing but anxiety and ten-

derness. Certainly he had no idea yet that Lindley had been there with his wife.

Perhaps he need never know. Her heart began to beat hopefully. Perhaps, if she left hospital

tomorrow—and there was surely no reason why she should not—there would be no occasion for

him either to enquire or to glean news of another casualty from the fire.

She mustn't let him stay here too long. A chance word from one of the nurses might give him

some idea of what had happened. The less risk of that, the better. Only she didn't want him to go

away and leave her just yet. Not for a few minutes, anyway.

If she could send him away fairly soon, and persuade them to let her leave the hospital in a

taxi tomorrow—without waiting for him to come for her—then he need never know about

Lindley. She could telephone later herself, or perhaps even call at the hospital—because one

would have to find out what had happened—but Paul need never know.

'Don't look so worried, darling,' Paul's voice said softly. 'There's no need to think about what

happened any more. It's over, and you're safe.'

'Yes, I know,' Marigold said, and tried to make her expression appear tranquil and un-

worried.

As the minutes passed, her fears grew quieter, and because Paul was there she thought—as

she always did with him—that probably everything would somehow come out all right.

She had almost decided to tell him she was quite all right and that he could go, when her

pleasant reassuring nurse came in again and said:

'There's a Mrs. Marne here. She's very anxious to see you for a few minutes. I've told her it

must be only a few minutes. But as she seems to come from the house where the fire was,

perhaps you'd like to see her.'

'Oh, yes, please. She's my sister-in-law, anyway,' Marigold explained. 'Do let her come in.

She'll be so terribly worried.'

The nurse went away, and presently returned with Stephanie, who did indeed look worried.

'Oh, Marigold, dear!' She kissed Marigold anxiously. 'Paul, is she all right? What a frightful

business. How on earth did it happen?'

'Well, never mind about that now, Stephanie.' Paul smiled and slightly shook his head at her.

'She's quite all right, but a bit tired.'

'I'm not even tired,' Marigold protested indignantly and untruthfully. 'And I want to talk to

Stephanie for a moment. How did you hear about it, Stephanie, anyway?'

'Why, it was the merest chance. David and I were just coming home from the theatre. We

happened to pass the nursery. I could hardly believe it when I saw fire-engines and pumps and

things drawn up outside. David and I stopped our taxi, of course, and we managed to find a

policeman who said there'd been a fire there earlier in the evening. He'd only just come on the

beat and didn't seem to know the exact time when it had been discovered. I was terrified, of

course, because I didn't know whether you'd have left or not. Then someone in the crowd said

that a girl had been brought out, and I knew it must be you.'

'Poor Stephanie! I'm so sorry. Didn't they tell you I wasn't badly hurt or anything?' Marigold

laughed rather faintly.

'No. You know what people are. They always make things out to be as sensational as

possible And then someone else said there was a man too, I suppose that was poor old

Sanderson. I managed to find out where you'd been brought, and David and I came round at

once.'

'Sanderson is perfectly all right,' Marigold heard herself say distinctly.

But she didn't add that he and his wife hail been safely enjoying a film. She lay there,

stubbornly hoping that, for this evening at any rate, Stephanie—and Paul too for that matter —

would be content to think the man concerned was the caretaker, and to accept her assurance that

he was all right.

'Oh, I'm glad,' Stephanie was saying. 'And what about Mrs. Sanderson?'

'She was at the pictures.' That, at least, was true.

'Lucky,' commented Stephanie. And Paul asked then where David was.

'Downstairs, talking to one of the house surgeons. We guessed you'd be here, Paul, of course,

and decided it would be better not to have too many people coming worrying her.'

'I'm not worried,' Marigold said with a smile, and pressed her head affectionately against

Paul.

'No. But David was quite right about a crowd not being the right thing,' Paul said.

'Yes, of course. And now that I know you're really going on all right, pet, I don't think I

ought to stay, either.' Stephanie stooped and kissed Marigold affectionately again.

'Oh, Stephanie, wait a moment!' She wondered if there were anything else she could say

which would prevent Stephanie's enquiring about the other patient, on her way out of the

hospital.

'Why, dear, what is it? Do you want anything?' Stephanie looked at her anxiously.

'No. Only there—there's so much to talk about. What about the nursery, Stephanie? What are

we going to do with all the children tomorrow?'

'Oh, that's my headache,' Stephanie assured her with a laugh. 'And the nursery was the least

of my worries. After five or ten minutes of wondering if you were alive or dead, it was almost a

relief to know that only the house had gone.'

'Oh, Stephanie, how like you!'

'Well, it's true. We can start the nursery school again in another house. But we couldn't have

another you,' Stephanie told her with a smile. Marigold felt Paul's arm tighten round her at that,

and while he and Stephanie were saying a few words to each other, she lay there thinking that—

yes, of course, the one thing from which one could not recover was death. She was still in a

dreadful quandary. In fact, she had not the remotest idea what sort of explanation she was to

make to Stephanie later. But at least she was alive. After being frighteningly close to death, she

was alive.

'And I'll think of something,' Marigold assured herself wearily. 'So long as Paul doesn't have to know Lindley was there, I'll think of something to satisfy Stephanie. Or perhaps it won't have to come out, even to her. She'll have to find out that Sanderson is really all right, of course. But she'll be busy making arrangements for a new place. She won't have time to make detailed enquiries. At least, I hope not. Perhaps I can even undertake to make "enquiries" for her.'

She wished distressedly that it didn't seem so likely that she would now be involved in lying to Stephanie as well as Paul. It was dreadful how there never seemed any way out of this entangle-ment. It was like some nightmare maze, where avenues of escape seemed to open out from time to time, only to disclose an impenetrable barrier as soon as one put them to the test.

Surreptitiously she moved her hand so that she could wipe away a tear with a corner of the

sheet. It was ridiculous to start crying now, because all the real danger was over. But somehow it

was very difficult into.

'Darling, what is it?'

Both Paul and Stephanie were hanging over her, making anxious snares, their dear eager

faces full of affection and tenderness for her.

'N-nothing,' Marigold said in a very small voice. 'I—I was thinking, that was all.'

'Try not to think about it dear.' Paul touched her hair lovingly. 'It's over and you're safe now.'

'It's the shock. She kept going over what happened, in her own mind,' Stephanie said, looking

down at her asymptotically. 'What is it, pet? She might feel better if she spoke about it a little,

instead of keeping it all to herself,' she added to Paul, with the ardone woman understanding

another very mid better than a mere man could do.

Paul looked doubtful, at Marigold wondered if she had better be a hypocrite and pretend it

was really the recollection of the fire which made her cry. In a way, that did race her feel silly

and weepy too.

'It's—all right, really,' she whispered rather shamefacedly. 'I was just thinking of—of trying to get round the landing.'

'Trying to get round the landing?' They both looked a good deal mystified.

'Yes. You see, we—I was in my room, and the stairs were blazing, and the fire escape was the other side of the landing. There was just a—a sort of shelf left. It—it was very frightening, edging round with—with the fire roaring up the middle of the house. And when I got round to the other passage, I looked round and——' She paused and licked her rather dry lips. It was per-fectly appalling how she found she wanted to describe just what did happen—found it almost impossible not to mention Lindley's presence. The others were looking at her with anxious, sympathetic eyes. She had to say something. 'I looked round and—well, then, I knew I'd only just managed it in time,' she finished rather lamely.

'Darling, how frightful! No wonder you want to cry about it,' exclaimed Stephanie. 'But, as Paul says, it's all over now. You're quite safe with us again. Poor little thing,' she added, aside, to Paul, 'she'd be all alone too. It's a wonder she dared to do it.'

Marigold lay there listening to the sympathetic murmur of their voices. She was not quite sure that she would have dared to do it if she had been alone. It was only Lindley's urgent, harsh command that had forced her on, she supposed. But that was something she could hardly explain.

'I won't think about it any more,' she said suddenly. 'And it's stupid to cry about it anyway. I feel better now I've told you.' Oddly enough, that was true. 'Don't worry, Stephanie dear. And I expect David's waiting for you and wondering what's happened.'

'Yes, that's true. I really must go. You'll be all right with Paul.'

'Oh, yes.' Marigold smiled at her husband. 'And I'll help you with the new place, Stephanie. We'll manage something. I'll be all right tomorrow, I expect.'

'Or the next day,' suggested Stephanie with a laugh as she kissed her good-bye. 'All right, Nurse. I'm really coming,' as the door opened and the nurse came back into the room. 'I won't disturb your patient any more.'

The nurse smiled.

'Yes, I expect it's time she was left quiet,' she agreed. 'But I really came to say they've just phoned across from the Men's Casualty to say that your husband has recovered consciousness, Mrs. Marne. Would you like to go over and see him now?'

CHAPTER XI

FOR a couple of seconds no one said a word. Then the extraordinary quality of the silence in the

small hospital bedroom seemed to impress itself on the nurse. She glanced quickly from one to

another of the three people there, wanting very much to say something that would break the

queer silence, and the feeling that words might be even more unfortunate than silence.

It was Stephanie who spoke at last.

'My—husband? I don't quite understand. Isn't there some mistake?'

'Why, no, I don't think so.' The nurse, who was a kind and tactful girl flushed slightly and

very heartily wished that Sister had taken this job on herself instead of delegating it to a poor

busy junior, who appeared to have put her foot in it. 'A Mr, Lindley Marne was brought in too,

you know—as a causality from the same fire. I thought, as your name is Mrs. Marne, and Mrs.

Irving spoke of you as her sister-in-law—' The nurse paused again doubtfully.

'Yes, I see.' Stephanie spoke much more naturally that time. 'Yes, I am Mrs. Linda Marne. I'll come.'

She glanced at Marigold, but Marigold In closed her eyes. It was the most cowardly form to

escape, of course, but she could not—simply could not—face further explanations now . There

was no question of her really losing consciousness. She simply made her mind as blank she

could and lay there with her eyes closed. They could think what they liked, say what they liked,

but nothing on earth was going to induced her to open her eyes again now.

She knew that Stephanie was near the bed again because she spoke to Paul in an undertone.

And because she was in Paul's arms she could hardly help hearing what was said.

'I'd better go, Paul. What on earth does it mean?' That was Stephanie's voice—anxious and

pitched so low that the nurse would not be able to hear.

'Don't go unless you really want to.' Paul's voice sounded stern, although it was as quiet as

hers.

'But it looks so—awful, if I don't.'

'Damn what it looks,' retorted Paul softly. 'He has no claim—'

'I'm going.' Stephanie's voice was as quiet as his, but determined. 'Only was that was he

doing there?'

'Probably pestering Marigold.' Paul sounded quietly murderous. 'She was silly enough to try talk

him round once before, poor little girl.' Marigold felt her heart leap hopefully. Paul himself was

supplying her with an explanation. But Stephanie said:

'How did he know where to come, Paul? I was very careful never to let him have the address.

'Oh well, it doesn't matter now. I'll go and see what's happened.'

'All right. I'll either see you or ring you later.' There was silence after that, so presumably

Stephanie and the nurse had gone.

She lay there, letting the quiet of the room envelop her. So long as she kept her eyes closed

there was no need for explanations. By and by she would think of something. It was a problem

which she simply could not tackle now. It must wait, as everything else must wait, until her

exhausted energies returned and she felt able to cope with life again.

Meanwhile, even her capacity for fear seemed in abeyance. She listened dreamily to the

distant sounds of the hospital ward, somewhere outside her door, and—much nearer at hand, so

near that she could almost feel it—the even beating of Paul's heart.

He could not, she told herself, be deeply antated or suspicious, if his heart could beat so

quietly and regularly. Perhaps there was very little to worry about, after all.

But he had said he would see Stephanie or telephone her later. And that would be after sin

had seen Lindley and spoken to him. And what would Lindley say to her?

Except for the frightful, fantastic interlude of the fire, the last passage of words between

herself and Lindley had been disastrously and bro tally frank. She had even struck him, now sin-

came to think of it. He knew by now that, from every point of view, she loathed and despised

him. He was the last man on earth to forgive that easily from someone he had once fascinated.

What would he say to Stephanie, in cynical, spiteful explanation of his presence there in the

house with Marigold?

He had an almost unlimited opportunity of taking his revenge on the girl who had dared to

despise and slight him.

Marigold discovered that, after all, her capacity for fear was not in abeyance. As she thought

now of how completely Lindley could ruin everything, while she lay here helpless and stupid,

she felt her own heart-beats begin to quicken, quite out of time with Paul's.

'Paul,' she said softly, but still without opening her eyes.

'Yes, dear.'

'I can—I can explain—later.'

'Explain what, my dear?'

'About—about Lindley being there.'

'All right. Don't bother now.' She felt him kiss her cheek lightly, and she drew a great sigh of

relief.

At the moment she had really not the slightest idea how she was going to explain. The

exclamation had just been an instinctive and childish effort to ward off suspicion and discovery.

But she had felt she must say something.

Her common sense told her that she ought to go on now from that point, trying to fit together

some sort of explanation which would cover at least the fact of Lindley's presence in the house.

But her powers of resistance really were broken at last. And presently she drifted into a long,

dreamless and refreshing sleep.

When Marigold woke it was broad daylight, and in the first minutes of returning

consciousness she struggled to remember where she was. Then the door opened, and a nurse—

not the nurse of the night before, but a bright, saucy looking junior—came in.

With a rush, the whole train of yesterday's incredible -happenings came back to her.

'Good morning. Here are breakfast, roses and a love-letter for you,' her nurse announced

cheerfully, as she fixed an invalid table across the bed, and set a tray upon it.

'Roses and a love-letter?' Marigold sat up smiling and looked enquiring. 'Who from?'

'Well, you should know that better than I would,' the nurse told her with a laugh. 'But he's an

expensive admirer if he sends you roses at this time of year.'

'It's my husband,' Marigold said, still smiling as she looked at the roses and picked up the

letter. 'How did he get them here, I wonder?'

'They were left quite early this morning, the porter said. Now don't let your breakfast get cold

while you read the letter.'

Marigold promised not to neglect her breakfast. But as soon as the door had closed behind

the nurse again, she ripped open the envelope and drew out Paul's note, which was a great deal

more important to her than any breakfast.

'Good morning, darling,' ran the few lines.

This is just to send you my love, and to tell you to look after yourself and have a quiet day. I'm

afraid I shall not be able to get away until the later afternoon, but I'll come in then to see you.

Stephanie will come if she has a free moment, but if she doesn't manage to come you will know

it is because she is arranging about the nursery school. All my love. Paul.'

Marigold put down the letter and went slowly on with her breakfast.

It was perfectly obvious that he must have seen Stephanie, or at least spoken with her on the

telephone. But he still sent 'all his love' and wrote as though nothing were changed between

them. That must mean either that Stephanie knew nothing or else had said nothing of what she

knew.

Then Paul could not get away until late that afternoon. If only she could persuade the doctor

that she was perfectly all right and able to go home in a taxi, then Paul need not come back here

again, to ask awkward questions if he were so disposed.

She could go straight home and telephone to his office from there, explaining that he need

not call at the hospital, but could come straight home to her.

A lot now depended on being able to convince the efficient, over-cautious people here that

she was really all right.

She felt all right, she assured herself. That terrible sense of weakness and exhaustion had

gone. If she could only get home she would be all right, particularly if she no longer had the

anxiety of wondering what Paul might find out, quite inadvertently, at the hospital.

When her nurse came back, Marigold greeted her with a radiant smile.

'I feel a perfect fraud, occupying a hospital bed like this,' she declared. 'I feel as fit as a fiddle

this morning.'

'Rather a pale fiddle,' was the sceptical retort.

'I never have much colour,' Marigold said carelessly. 'When will the doctor be coming?'

'Some time during the next hour. Why? Do you want to get up?'

'Get up? Yes, of course. I want to go home,' Marigold explained, as though there could be no

two opinions about that. 'Do I have to see him first?'

'You do,' the nurse assured her firmly.

And with that Marigold had to be satisfied.

When the nurse had gone again, leaving Marigold comfortably propped up and supplied with

the morning paper, —she began to wonder about Lintdley. How was he? And why hadn't she

thought to make a few discreet enquiries? Her bright little nurse might not know any news about

a patient in another ward, but she seemed the resourceful kind who could very well find out,, if

she put her mind to it.

Suppose he were desperately ill. Until now, that possibility had not presented itself to

Marigold. The easy and comforting reassurance of the nurse in the ambulance—who had

evidently wished to spare Marigold any further shock —had been all there was to go on. She had

said he was not dead, 'only stunned.' But he had received a terrible blow on the head from that

piece of burning beam.

True, he had recovered consciousness last night. Sufficiently even for Stephanie to be

allowed to see him. But suppose he were dangerously ill. So ill that he—didn't recover. Then

again safety and escape showed themselves enticingly in the distance. This time it would have

nothing to do with anything she could decide. It would be out of her hands. There would be no

reason why she should not accept the solution, thankfully and without a qualm.

Always providing, of course, that he had not been able to say anything much to Stephanie

last night.

Oh, why hadn't she asked her nurse for news of him?

Marigold had to wait a good hour until the doctor at last put in an appearance. And then he

proved to be a good-natured, gossipy sort of person who wanted to hear all about her adventure

of the previous evening.

She gave him a brief account, and tried an innocent query about Lindley on him. But

Lindley's case was not under his care, it seemed, and he was unwilling or unable to give her any

information.

However, her main point at least was gained. He agreed with her that there were no serious

after-effects from the shock, and although he suggested her staying in the hospital until the next

day, he yielded to her earnest entreaties to be allowed to go home that afternoon.

'All right. There's no real harm. Is your husband going to fetch you? When can he come?'

'He can't come today,' lied Marigold promptly. 'I'll be all right in a taxi.'

The doctor started to say that she would be nothing of the sort, and Marigold's heart sank

again. But at that moment, her nurse came brightly to the rescue, with an offer to take Marigold

home in a taxi during her free time.

'I'm off at two. I'll take you then,' she promised.

'Oh, thank you.' Marigold could have embraced her in her gratitude and relief, though she

felt bound to add: 'Don't you really mind giving up your free time like that?'

'No, that's all right. It won't take very long.'

So it was settled that way. And Marigold was then allowed to get up and have her lunch, sit-

ting at a small table where Paul's roses made a welcome splash of warm colour.

Just before her nurse went off duty, she came in to see Marigold.

'I'm going off duty now. I have to go over to the Nurses' Home to change, but I shan't be

more than a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes,' she told Marigold. 'Can you be ready then?'

'Yes, of course. There's just one thing, Nurse.'

'Yes?' The nurse turned in the doorway.

'I'd like very much to know—how Mr. Marne is. He was brought in too, last night, you know.

He—he's my brother-in-law.' She supposed, in some preposterous way, he was! 'Do you know

how he is?'

'I'll ask Sister, if you like.'

'If you would. And'—Marigold hesitated, and then added with sudden resolution—'if I could

see him for a moment, I—I'd be glad.'

'All right, I'll ask.'

She sat there with her heart beating uncomfortably fast, while her friendly nurse was now

making enquiries.

Presently she came back with the news that Marigold might go over to what was referred in

as 'Men's Casualty' and make her own enquiries.

'I'll take you,' her nurse volunteered. 'It's not far. I'll leave you there on my way over to tin-

Home, and you can find your way back here quite easily. And I'd better bring a coat for you. You

didn't collect much from your fire last night, did you?'

'No. I'm afraid everything was burnt except what I stood up in,' Marigold said. 'They seemed

to have cleaned those up pretty well, though.'

'They still smell a bit smoky, I expect, don't they?'

'Yes, I don't think I'll ever like the smell of a wood fire again,' Marigold said with a little gri-

mace.

She was surprised to find that she could chat carelessly like this about clothes and wood fires,

when in the next few minutes she would be seeing Lindley and perhaps finding out quite

definitely that he had betrayed her to Stephanie at least.

Her friendly nurse handed her over to a rather severe-looking Sister, who promptly dashed

her hopes of much information by saying:

'Well, you can come and see him for a moment if you like. But I think he's asleep.'

She took Marigold into a small room, very similar to the one which she herself had occupied.

And there, sure enough, Lindley lay exhaustedly asleep, his face oddly thin and dark against the

whiteness of the pillow and the bandage round his head.

'Is he just—asleep?' she asked in a rather fearful whisper. 'Or is he unconscious?'

'He's asleep. But he doesn't come to the surface much.'

'Is he—dangerously ill?'

'He's had a nasty knock on the head,' was the non-committal reply.

'But he did recover consciousness last night, didn't he?'

'Yes.' The severe Sister looked even more severe then. 'But he was allowed to talk much too

long then. A great mistake.'

Marigold found it in her heart to be sorry for the wretched junior who had no doubt made a

great mistake. But there was something else, of much greater importance to herself, implied in

that remark.

'His wife was allowed to see him, wasn't she?'

'Yes.'

'And he—talked a long time to her?'

'Much too long.'

The Sister seemed to think that was all then- was to be said on the subject. And Marigold too

could find no further reason to linger.

She thanked the Sister humbly, receiving a somewhat stately inclination of the head in return,

and then went rather slowly back to her own room, to await the coming of her nurse.

So he had been talking a long time to Stephanie—'much too long.' Yes, thought Mari gold, it

could be much too long, from her point of view too. But that wasn't quite what the Sister had

meant.

There was not time to do much more anxious thinking and wondering before her nurse

returned.

It was not really a long drive home. In an astonishingly short space of time, or so it seemed to

Marigold, she was back in her familiar surroundings, and had persuaded her young nurse to stay

and have tea with her.

'All right. As a matter of fact, I was hoping you'd ask me to,' was the candid retort. 'I haven't

been long in London and I don't know many people. It wasn't really kind of me to offer to take

you home. I was glad of the chance.'

'Well, I'm glad to have you,' Marigold told her with a laugh. 'And you must come and see me

another day when you're off duty.'

The invitation had been accepted with alacrity before Marigold reflected that her own future

was so uncertain that it was perhaps rather unwise to issue invitations to a home which might not

be hers very long if—well, if certain facts came to light.

'If you tell me where the things are, I'll make tea,' her visitor offered good-naturedly. And

Marigold, remembering that she must telephone to Paul, let her new and rather managing young

friend attend to the tea while she herself took up the telephone.

There was some difficulty in getting her connection, and, even when she had been put

through to his office, he was not there. So she left a message that he should come straight home

as his wife had left the hospital, and then devnted the next hour to being a sympathetic and

attentive hostess, while her visitor displayed a considerable degree of home sickness by

discoursing with a great air of indifference on ill the members of her family.

Amused and touched, Marigold allowed her to do most of the talking, and, when she left, the

invitation to return on another day was renewed in defiance of the uncertainty of the future.

Alone at last, Marigold sat down by the fire and tried to decide what she should say to Paul

when he came in. His own belief evidently was that she made another ill-judged attempt to per-

suade Lindley not to oppose Stephanie's divorce suit. Probably much of the safest and simplest

thing was to give that as the reason for Lindley's presence at the nursery school at such an odd

hour of the evening. The most she could be accused of then was obstinate foolishness and an

excessive desire to interfere on behalf of Stephanie's happiness.

On the other hand, what had Lindley said to Stephanie?

That was the problem to which one always came back. And if one looked facts in the face, it

was almost certain that he had told her very fully in that too-long conversation—what the

original connection was between himself and Marigold.

Well then, suppose one did face facts—did admit to oneself that Stephanie at least knew the

truth by now—what could be done?

Marigold pushed back her hair from her aching forehead, and tried to concentrate on this

fresh problem.

Was it just possible that Stephanie, with her generous and understanding outlook, could be

persuaded to take a lenient view of what had happened? Or rather, to be absolutely exact, what

had not happened. Could she perhaps be made to understand how bitterly Marigold regretted that

mad and foolish impulse, and that, in spite of everything, she would make a good wife to Paul?

If so, then Stephanie could be pledged to silence and—once more the bright, the unattainable,

came into view—Paul need never know.

But this would entail explanations and discussion with Stephanie. It was vital that Marigold

had a talk with her before she saw Paul again. How stupid of her not to have thought of that

before, and to have spent some of her idle day arranging it! But it was not too late to telephone

now.

Habit was so strong, that Marigold found herself dialling the nursery school number before

she remembered that it was useless to try there. With hopes a good deal dashed by the reflection

that it was unlikely that Stephanie would be at home when there was so much to be done, Mari

gold then tried the number of her flat.

Silence greeted the buzz of the telephone bell, and Marigold dispiritedly replaced the

receiver.

Well, she would just have to try what she could do tomorrow, for Paul might be in any time

now. And as she thought that, she heard his key in the door.

She ran to meet him and was caught up right off the ground and kissed several times.

'How dare you come home alone from the hospital?' he scolded her affectionately. 'I meant to

fetch you myself this afternoon.'

'Yes, I know. But I wanted to come home. I was quite all right, and longing to be home. I

couldn't stay any longer. One of the nurses brought me home, and I'm quite all right.'

'Very well.' He looked at her fondly —certainly not as though Stephanie had made any

damaging disclosures to him. So the note and the roses had reflected his real feelings and, so far,

there were no suspicions to live down!

She sat on the arm of his chair while he had tea. And it was with a coolness which surprised

herself that she said presently:

'I want to tell you—about Lindley, Paul.'

There was only the slightest hesitation in her voice. And, similarly, there was only the

slightest tightening of his hand which was resting on the other arm of the chair.

'Um-hm? What do you want to say about him?' He didn't look up at her, but went on very

casually eating his tea.

'It must have seemed very—odd to you that he was there too.'

'Yes, a bit peculiar,' he agreed, still in that carefully expressionless voice, a little as though he

were afraid that any great display of feeling might frighten her.

'I had met him—in the street, oddly enough, that lunchtime. He stopped and spoke. I didn't

intend to at first, but it was difficult to walk on, once he had spoken. And then he mentioned Ste-

phanie and—and the divorce. I expect it was silly, Paul, but I had the impression that perhaps,

after all, if I could have another talk with him, he might be more reasonable.'

'You are a little idiot, you know,' he said gently.

'Yes, I know.' She touched his shoulder timidly with her hand and, unexpectedly, he stiffened

slightly. 'But I—I didn't know then. I thought I really might do some good. I asked him to let me

talk it over with him again. He said he hadn't time then, and at first he wasn't at all keen on any

further discussion at all. Then he said—all right, he could give me half an hour that evening. He

wanted me to go to his flat, but I refused. And then he said he would come along to the nursery

school.'

'At that time in the evening!'

'Yes. It had to be after Stephanie was sure to be gone. I said I'd stay late working.' She

noticed nervously that he had clenched his hand a good deal more tightly by now, and she added

rather hurriedly and breathlessly: 'I—I'd forgotten that Sanderson and his wife went out on

Tuesdays.'

'I see. Go on.'

'Well, that—that's all, really Paul. He came, and we started to talk, and then we realised that

something was wrong. And before we knew where we were, the place was ablaze.'

'You must have been very much absorbed in your conversation,' Paul said a little dryly.

'Oh, we were. Of course we were, Paul. It—it was about Stephanie.'

'And do you mean to say that Lindley had you alone there wasn't offensive to you?' He did

turn his head then, and looked straight up at her.

'Well-------' Marigold swallowed nervously. In every single detail she could recall that

odious scene when he caught hold of her and kissed her.

'I see,' said Paul slowly. 'He was.'

'Paul, he did try to kiss me. And then we heard one of the windows breaking with the heat of

the fire, and it was in that moment that we realised the house was on fire.'

'How lucky,' Paul remarked with an air of grim understatement. And then: 'I'd like to kill

him.'

'Paul, please—' She caught his arm nervously. 'Please forget about it. It's over now. And he's

very badly hurt. You can afford to be generous.'

'Generous!' Paul laughed shortly. 'I hope he dies.'

She was silent, appalled—not by the sentiment, which indeed she could almost have echoed,

but by the look of self-contained fury on Paul's face.

She had never seen him look so angry, and it terrified her. If he felt like this about an attempt

to kiss her, what would he do if he knew tin truth? In a cold sweat of terror, she tried to think

what precautions she could take to ensure that she saw Stephanie before he did. She found

herself madly rehearsing, in her own mind, tin- arguments which she must use to convince

Stephanie of the necessity for silence.

And even as she did so, there was a ring at the front-door bell.

Marigold sprang off the arm of the chair, but Paul caught her and quite gently put her back.

'All right, I'll answer it.'

'No, no,' she began, and then realised how extraordinary her behaviour must appear if she

persisted in feverish protests.

He went out of the room, and she put her hands over her face, trying to pretend to herself that

it might be a tradesman or the housekeeper or one of their neighbours. But, with a sense of

fatality, she knew it was none of these. And when she heard Stephanie's voice in the hall, there

was no feeling of surprise. Only a chill of despair.

It seemed to her that they lingered unnecessarily long exchanging greetings—or was it

information? And then, as she made an effort to appear calm and self-possessed, Stephanie came

into the room, followed by Paul.

It would have taken very little indeed to make Marigold break into hysterical tears at the

moment. She hardly knew what she expected. Reproaches, contempt, accusations.

But what really happened was beyond her wildest imaginings. Stephanie came straight across

the room and, putting her arms round her, kissed her with considerable emotion.

'Marigold, you are the very best friend that anyone ever had. Thank you, darling,' she said.

CHAPTER XII

FOR a scared and bewildered moment, Marigold clung to her in silence. Then she looked beyond

Stephanie to Paul, who stood smiling at this somewhat emotional scene.

She wanted to say that she didn't know what on earth Stephanie was talking about. But, even

in her present state of bewilderment, she guessed that would be the wrong thing to say. She

hugged Stephanie nervously and tried to swallow the enormous lump which seemed to be lodged

in her throat.

'It's all right,' she whispered huskily. And then she saw there were tears in Stephanie's eyes,

and, because the inexplicable relief from anxiety and the impossibility of understanding what had

happened were altogether too much for her, Marigold gave one childish sob herself.

'Now look here, if you two girls are both going to cry, there's nothing for me to do but to

follow suit,' exclaimed Paul. 'Get up, Stephanie dear, from that touching attitude beside

Marigold's chair. She's had quite enough emotion for one day.' And Paul affectionately pushed

his sister out of the way, and, sitting down on the arm of Marigold's chair, he gathered her up

against him. 'Now stop crying, sweetheart.'

'I'm—not crying,' Marigold said, wishing frantically that someone would explain, without her

having to ask questions. For that she dared not do. She must skate on this beautiful thin ice,

pretending to understand, and all the time not knowing in the least why she was being praised

instead of reviled, as she had expected.

'She's not quite herself yet, of course,' Stephanie said, wiping her eyes and pretending that

Marigold had been the only one to be affected. 'I'm not at all sure that they ought to have let you

come home from the hospital today. It's disgraceful how careless some of these places are about

their patients.'

Marigold hastened to clear the hospital from this most unjust charge by explaining her own

insistence on coming home.

'I did everything but push the doctors and nurse out of the way,' she said. 'And they were

quite willing for me to stay until tomorrow, or as long as I liked. Only I wanted to get home and

—and hear about the school and everything.'

'Oh, the school's going to be all right,' Stephanie assured her airily. 'There's nothing much to

be done with the present house, of course, bin we've already fixed on another place. Much more

modern and up-to-date. None of your old fashioned makeshift's with basement furnaces that set

the place ablaze. I made complaints from tin- beginning about that beastly thing, only every one

said I was fussy. Now I've been proved right '

'Almost worth a fire for that,' interjected Paul.

'Well, at least it's made them much more docile about giving me the things I want in tin- new

place. You must come along and see it, as soon as you're strong again, Marigold, and

'I'm perfectly strong now,' Marigold insisted.

But the others both immediately pointed out that anyone who started crying because some

one else was nice to them could hardly be reckoned to be in a condition of perfect strength.

Marigold subsided into silence then, because, of course, it was quite impossible to explain

that it was an absolute agony of relief which had produced the tendency to tears.

In any case, there was little need for her to talk, because Stephanie, once started on the plans

for her new nursery, was ready to run on happily without the assistance of more than an

occasional comment.

Then Stephanie said that she must go, and Marigold found to her surprise that perhaps there

was something after all in what the others said about her not being quite herself yet. Because

once more she felt extraordinarily tired. Not the crushing, irresistible exhaustion of the previous

night, but a very distinct weariness.

She was glad that Paul suggested her going to bed, as soon as Stephanie had gone. And then

he brought their dinner into the bedroom and set it out very inexpertly on a small table and most

of the bed. He himself sat on the only remaining free bit of bed and teased her and petted her,

and talked only about things that didn't matter in the least. So that Marigold could almost have

imagined it was her honeymoon all over again, and that the dreadful happenings of the last two

weeks had never taken place.

Afterwards she agreed that she would probably sleep quite soon, and he brought her a book,

in case she wanted to read first, and, having made her comfortable, went into the next room to do

some work he had brought home from the office.

She didn't open the book, but lay there comfortably, watching the light from the open

doorway, very happy in the consciousness that Paul was only a few yards away.

Then she thought about Stephanie's extraordinary—and still unexplained—behaviour. It was

absurd that one could be so utterly ignorant of what other people were thinking, and yet have to

pretend to understand exactly what was going on.

And how was she going to find out? That was the awkward part.

It was quite impossible to question either Paul or Stephanie. She could only go on accepting

the halo they had thrust upon her, and wearing it with what grace she could.

But that was absurd! she decided the next minute. She simply must find out the explanation.

Well, there was one other person—and one other person only—who must surely know the

answer to all this. And that was Lindley.

She thought of him as she had last seen him, lying silent and very still in the hospital bed. He

didn't seem so frightening like that. It was not so difficult to think of talking to him, when she

thought of him like that.

And, all of a sudden, Marigold made her decision. She would go and see Lindley just once

more—probably for the last time.

She must have fallen asleep after that, because she knew nothing about her book being taken

away and the shaded bed-lamp being put out. When Paul came to bed, much later, she half

roused herself, but fell asleep again when he kissed her and told her to go to sleep.

The next morning, she found that none of her resolution had abated. She was absolutely

determined to go and see Lindley, even though, by daylight, she was by no means sure that it

would be for the last time. Lindley had sprung too many unpleasant surprises upon her for her to

dare to think some extraordinary and happy solution to her difficulties was to be allowed. It

seemed to her now much more likely that Stephanie's affectionate gratitude was founded on

some complete misapprehension. It was for her, she admitted grimly to herself, to find out the

disagreeable truth.

After Paul had gone to his office, she busied herself with several small tasks about the flat.

She hardly admitted to herself that she was simply filling in time until she could reasonably go

and see Lindley. It was possible of course that, even when she got h o m e , he would not be in a

condition to talk much. But at least she must try to find out something.

She decided that probably the afternoon would be the best time, though she could well

imagine that stern Sister saying 'No visitors' at any time.

By the time she finally set out for the hospital, her calm determination had given way to a

certain degree of nervousness. She was not even very sure how she was going to handle the

interview, once she had succeeded in getting it. B u t she would just have to be guided by his

attitude

That was the worst of it. One always had in leave the real initiative to him—because he held

all the cards.

To her surprise, she was greeted with cheerful friendliness by the porter, who remembered

her from the previous afternoon and appeared to regard her more or less as part of the hospital.

She explained who it was she wanted to sec. Whereupon he said:

'Huh! Not visiting day, you know. Still, you'd better go on up and see what you can do with

Sister.'

With very grave doubts about what she would be able to do with Sister, Marigold went up the

wide stone staircase and along the clean, bleak corridor. She wondered idly why one always felt

faintly nervous in hospitals. Possibly because so many hopes and fears had been concentrated

there and impressed upon the atmosphere.

At the entrance to the ward where Lindley's room was situated, she encountered the forbid-

ding Sister, who, however, unbent considerably on this occasion, as soon as she recalled that

Marigold had some connection, with Lindley. It was all too evident, thought Marigold, that

Lindley had recovered sufficiently to exercise at any rate part of his famous charm.

'Well, he's a good deal better today,' she was told. 'You want to go in and see him?—Hm.

He's in no condition for a lot of talking, you understand. But he certainly seems tired of his own

company. You can go in for ten minutes.'

Marigold thanked her and knocked rather timidly on the door.

'Come in,' Lindley's voice said languidly, and with her heart beating much faster than usual,

Marigold went into the room.

'Oh, Mari, hello!' He smiled at her with a shade of something like defiance, she couldn't help

thinking.

They had shaved him, and he looked less dark in consequence, but that rather shadowed,

drawn look was still there, and made him look all of his age.

'Nice of you to come.' He looked at her with an amusement which she found hard to bear. 'Do

I owe this to kindness or curiosity?'

'I thought I'd—like to come and find out how you were,' Marigold said nervously.

'Well, as you see, I'm getting on very well. Arc you going to say you're glad?'

'I don't think I am specially glad,' Marigold admitted slowly. 'At least '

'At least?' he prompted mockingly.

'I haven't much reason to wish you active again, have I?' She looked straight at him.

'No, Mari. Singularly little reason, I should have said. That's why I can't quite understand

your behaviour.'

'My—behaviour? What do you mean?'

He smiled dryly, and watched her closely with those bright, cynical dark eyes of his.

'Tell me—did you come here to ask me questions?'

'Not—exactly,' she said quickly and defensively.

'Not? Well then, I shall ask you a few instead.'

She moved uneasily in her chair. The interview was not going much as she had intended. But

then interviews with Lindley never did.

'What—did you—want to ask me?'

'Why didn't you leave me, the night before last?'

'Leave you?'

He made an impatient little movement with his hand, but he laughed.

'Come, Mari, we've no witnesses. Didn't it enter your head the night before last that, while

that excellent fire was blazing, you had every opportunity of solving all your problems at one

stroke? Oh, I know you probably acted on momentary instinct when you stopped me from —

falling.' He gave the very slightest shudder and made a face at the recollection of what he had

escaped. 'But after that—your fate was rather in your own hands, you know.'

'Yes,' Marigold said, 'I know.'

'Oh, you did recognise that, then?' His eyebrows rose.

'Yes.'

'I thought you did, somehow,' he said softly, almost to himself.

'It was—in the corridor,' she found herself explaining reluctantly. 'The smoke was so thick

and I was dreadfully frightened, and you seemed so heavy to drag along that it was just like a

nightmare. And then I stumbled and almost fell down. It seemed as though there couldn't pos-

sibly be any chance of escape in time unless I could hurry.'

'Yes?' he prompted, still in that soft tone, as she hesitated.

'Well——' She met his eyes defiantly. 'I looked at you, Lindley, and I thought—you wouldn't

be much loss to the world.'

'Humiliating, but possibly true,' he agreed amusedly.

'I thought how—how quickly the smoke would overcome you—that you wouldn't really

suffer.' She was astonished to find she was telling him all this with such frankness, but somehow

she had to go on. 'I knew you were able and willing to spoil Paul's happiness and Stephanie's —

and mine.'

'It was a good case for the prosecution, Mari,' he said, smiling, as she paused again.

'I know. Logically, the only sensible thing was to—leave you there.'

'Particularly as you were endangering your own life by trying to rescue me,' he reminded her.

'I don't think I thought much about that,' Marigold said slowly. 'Not through any heroism or

self-sacrifice, but just because the other was more important.'

'The other?'

'Oh, the happiness of all three of us, balanced against—against—'

'My worthless life?' he suggested, and she nodded.

There was a short pause. Then he said:

'Well, there we have the piquant situation. I, unconscious on the ground, and you the only

person to decide whether I should live or die. Go on, Mari. What next?'

'Only that—I decided not to let you die,' she said rather flatly.

'But why, my dear?' He was smiling, but his dark eyes, which never left her face, were, oddly

enough, quite serious.

She didn't answer at once, and after a moment he spoke again.

'You looked at me, you say—and I suppose, in spite of everything, you remembered that,

however little I deserved it, you had loved me once. Was that it?'

'Oh, no,' Marigold said, not indignantly, but with the simple finality of absolute truth. 'No.

I never thought about loving or hating you. I couldn't leave you to die, Lindley, that was all. I

suppose, in the last extremity, one can't let another person die. Particularly someone who —who

has been struggling for life along with oneself less than five minutes ago.'

'I see,' he said slowly. 'I think I really do see at last.' And then, as she said nothing: 'You're a

good little thing, Mari. Really good. Funny that it doesn't make you dull.'

She flushed.

'I don't think I'm good at all,' she murmured embarrassedly. ' You should know—'

But he brushed that aside with an impatient:

'Nonsense. Goodness—the sort of goodness that matters—hasn't anything to do with being

taken in by my sort.'

She smiled faintly.

'What is your definition of goodness, then?' she asked with a touch of real curiosity.

He smiled too then, and slightly shook his head.

'Too big an order to give in one sentence,' he said. 'But I can tell you why I said you were

good. It's because you want a fair chance for the people you dislike, just as much as people you

like.'

'Well—of course.'

He shook his head again.

'Not "of course" at all. Most people think they do very well if they go to some pains to secure

justice—a chance, whatever you like to call it, for the people they like. Most people would feel

pretty good if they could reflect that they'd risked their life for someone they loved. It's —

unusual, Mari, to say the least, to risk one's life for one's enemy.'

There was a long silence, while she digested that. Then she raised her head and looked full at

him with those candid grey eyes of hers.

'Are you my enemy, Lindley?' she said quietly.

Unexpectedly, his bold glance failed to meet hers. He laughed and looked away from her

towards the window.

'Isn't the evidence rather overwhelming?'

'It has been—until very lately.'

He frowned, as though to say that he didn't know what she was talking about, and, leaning

forward, she spoke a little breathlessly.

'Lindley, what did you say to Stephanie the night before last?'

He did look at her then. Bold, amused, but not entirely at his ease.

'What has she been telling you?' he countered.

'She didn't tell me anything. That's just it. She simply behaves as though I've done her a great

service, and—and—'

He began to laugh.

'And you don't know why and dare not ask? Poor little Mari. That's too bad!'

He was laughing at her, she knew, and yet for the first time, she found it inoffensive. If she

hadn't known it was impossible with Lindley, she would have said he was laughing kindly.

'Won't you tell me what happened, Lindley? That's really why I came this afternoon. To find

out what wonderful service I'm supposed to have rendered Stephanie.'

'It's not supposition, my dear. You have rendered her a service. She is going to get her

divorce without opposition,' he said coolly.

'Get her— Oh, but how? You—you didn't tell her about me?' She was white with anxiety.

'No, of course not. You're no good as a correspondent. Much though I regret it, exactly

nothing passed between us, if you remember.' He looked at her with dry amusement. 'I have told

Stephanie that she has ample grounds for divorce in view of an—incident which happened about

six months ago. I'm willing to let her have all the evidence, and I have decided not to contest the

case.'

'You mean——' Hope and fear and astonishment so choked her that for a moment she could

not go on. Then she said again, 'You—you mean that you're keeping my connection with you a

secret, and—and letting Stephanie have her divorce on some other grounds —unopposed?'

'Correct in every particular,' he told her mockingly.

'But why, Lindley? Why? I don't understand. What changed your mind? You were so set on

—the other. On letting Stephanie get so far with her divorce suit and then breaking up the whole

thing by—by betraying me. Why isn't that any longer attractive? Or is it'—she caught her breath

frightenedly—'or is it that you expect to wring some sort of terms from me in exchange for your

silence, even now?'

'No, Mari.' He was smiling again in that dryly amused way. 'There are no terms attached to it.

One might put it—that the account between us is closed.'

'But why?'

'Well, my dear, one doesn't have one's life saved every day,' Lindley said almost carelessly.

'One must mark the occasion in some suitable- way, don't you think?'

There was a long silence. She just sat then- looking at him. Then slowly she put her hand

over his which lay slackly on the counterpane.

'You mean that you're doing this—because I didn't leave you to die the other night?'

He stared hard at her hand, as though some thing about it interested him more than the

conversation.

'I wouldn't jump to too hasty conclusions if I were you, Mari,' he said.

'It's not a hasty conclusion. It's taken me a ridiculous time to arrive at just what you did

mean,' Marigold retorted with a smile. Not quite a steady smile. But then it was difficult to be

calm and self-possessed in face of the unbelievable relief and happiness which was forcing itself

upon her consciousness.

'Well, there it is,' he said lightly, still not making any attempt to withdraw his hand from hers.

'Your one indiscreet flutter may now sink into obscurity. And Stephanie can apply for her

divorce without any fear of dramatic developments. Is that what you wanted to know?'

'It's everything I wanted to know,' Marigold said quietly. And, somewhat to her surprise and

greatly to his, she leant forward and kissed him.

For once in her life she had the satisfaction of taking Lindley entirely off his guard and of

seeing his habitual mocking sangfroid shattered. It was he who caught his breath that time. Then,

before she could draw back again, he took her peremptorily by her chin and said roughly, 'You

silly little thing,' and kissed her hard in return.

She felt that somehow she ought to give some explanation of why she had done that, but as

she really didn't know herself why she had, it was difficult to think of anything to say. Instead, he

spoke first:

'Now don't start endowing me, in imagination, with virtues I haven't got. I should hate to be

thought to have a heart of gold hidden all the time under a cynical exterior.'

'I shouldn't think of you like that, Lindley,' she said, and this time she too had a certain qual-

ity of dryness in her smile.

'You wouldn't? Good.' Then he laughed. 'You know me too well, eh?'

'I'm afraid so. But that doesn't take away from the fact that I—I appreciate your generosity

now.'

'Hardly generosity, my dear,' he reminded her. 'To refrain from a piece of entertaining vil-

lainy is scarcely to be ranked as generosity.'

'Oh, Lindley----------' she began, and then stopped with a helpless little shrug.

'What?'

'Oh—nothing, really. Only it's so odd that you can describe your intentions so accurately, and

yet still remain undismayed that those were your intentions. I don't understand you a bit.'

He laughed with real amusement.

'Of course not. And you never would. Our standards of values are entirely different. We'll

just have to leave it at that, Mari. By the way, when you are accepting Stephanie's admiring

gratitude for your part in her affairs, don't forget that the story is that you persuaded me to do this

singular act of grace, which will give her, her divorce quite painlessly.'

'When did I persuade you?' Marigold asked, smiling faintly.

'Eh? Oh, when I discussed things with you before the fire broke out. The power of your elo-

quence, weight of your logic, charm of your manner—anything you like to suggest. Something

had the desired effect, my dear. Stephanie may put it down to what she likes. But, anyway, she

owes her happiness to you. In a way, that's true, you know. Accept the halo without a qualm, and

wear it with the grace that only "a good little thing" can display,' he advised her with a mockery

which struck her again as not unkindly.

'I shall feel quite unworthy of a halo,' Marigold said with a slight shake of her head. 'But I'm

glad if—if anything I did helped to make things easier for Stephanie.'

'Shall we leave it at that, then?' he suggested.

'I think so.' And then, after a pause: 'I must go now, Lindley.'

'Yes, I think perhaps you'd better.' And she saw suddenly that he had had quite enough talk-

ing and was looking impatiently weary.

'He's quite middle-aged, really,' thought Marigold a little wonderingly. 'I don't know why he

seemed so romantic.'

She got to her feet, and then stood there slightly undecided and embarrassed.

'Well—good-bye, Lindley.' After a second's hesitation she held out her hand.

'Good-bye.' He took her hand, but he held it for only a moment, and both his touch and his

glance were so casual that she felt she was already a closed incident in his life.

She supposed there was more that could be said—something graceful that would round off

what must be their final parting—but she could think of nothing. Evidently it was the same with

him. Or else he hardly thought the occasion worth the effort. At any rate, he turned his head

away without saying anything else, and Man gold went quietly out of the room.

Ten minutes later, when the severe Sister came in to see if his visitor had been too much for

him, he was still lying with his head turned away, but she saw he was not asleep.

'Tch, tch!' she exclaimed in that tone which was the terror of all probationers. 'I'm afraid your

talk was too tiring, after all.'

Lindley did turn his head then, and rather unfairly bestowed upon the Sister his most

devastating smile.

'Not tiring, Sister. Rather ageing, that's all.'

And she went out again thinking:

'Now, I wonder why he said that. Of course, he does look older than I would have put him at

at first. Funny what a difference a bit of sunlight makes.'

Perhaps if she could have seen Marigold just then she would have thought that 'a bit of sun-

light' had made some difference to her too. Not that the pale, cold winter sunlight added any age

to Marigold's serious face. But there was a radiance about her expression, a timid happiness,

which had certainly not been there when she had gone into the hospital.

She rather absently returned the 'Good afternoon' of her friendly porter and went slowly

down the steps, across the gravelled courtyard, and into the street once more.

She felt strangely and deliciously aimless. Like someone who had been kept on a chain for

months and now was free to wander. It was difficult to know where to go or what to do, only the

occasion must not go unmarked. One must take advantage of the wonderful liberty which had

come so suddenly and unexpectedly.

After a little while she found she was walking along by the side of the Park and, just as once

before she had gone there when she wanted to be alone and clarify her thoughts, so now she

turned in at the next gateway and walked steadily away from the distracting noise and movement

of the street.

She remembered that other day when she had come here. Remembered it very distinctly. It

was before she knew Paul loved her. Almost, she supposed, before she knew she loved him. Or

at any rate, it was before she confessed to herself that she did. She had thought him in love with

Stephanie then. She smiled now to recall SUCH an absurdity. And she herself had already been

under the dreadful shadow of possible discovery.

It was before she had known quite how much there was to lose, of course. Later that day she

had been transported to perilous heights of happiness by Paul's declaration of his love. And with

the realisation of that happiness had also come the consciousness of how correspondingly great

her misery would be if she lost it all.

It had been a short period really, measured by ordinary time, she supposed—that breathless,

day-to-day catching at happiness which hail made up her engagement and short married life with

Paul. And yet, now that relief from anxiety had come, she seemed to have been living always

with the fear of betrayal by Lindley hovering in the background.

Although it was anything but warm, Marigold sat down on one of the deserted benches and

watched two or three sparrows quarrelling bitterly for a few crumbs thrown there by some

previous occupant of the bench.

They held her wandering interest for a moment, and then her thoughts came back to her own

affairs.

She was free. Had she really taken in that stupendous fact, she wondered? If so, she ought to

be wild with joy, hardly able to sit quietly on a Park bench, calmly contemplating leafless trees

and half-frozen grass.

But it was difficult to say how one would take these great moments in life until they actually

came. At any time during the last few weeks she would have been ready to weep for joy if some-

one had said there was no fear of Lindley betraying her, that Paul would never know why he had

found her at the hotel that night.

Now the moment had come. And here she was, taking it calmly, gravely and—she realised

the fact with faint dismay—without elation.

In the first few minutes after she had come from the hospital, she had been cloudlessly happy

in the unthinking consciousness of safety at last. Now some other element had entered into it.

Something which disturbed her, even while she tried to thrust it from her mind.

What more did she want? Hadn't Lindley himself said, 'Your one indiscreet flutter may now

sink into obscurity'? And he had meant it too. She knew, with complete confidence—a

confidence which she could neither explain nor doubt—that he had spoken the truth for once

There was no further question of his tell me Paul the truth about his wife.

And if Lindley did not tell him, there was no one else who would do so. No one else who con

hi do so. Except, of course herself.

She could consider the incident closed, dead, buried. She could dismiss it with a quiet con

science—or at least, quiet nerves. Conscience was a different matter.

Marigold sighed impatiently. Her thoughts took another inconsequential leap, and she-

thought—for no reason whatever—of Lindley calling her 'a good little thing.'

To be sure he had defined that rather peculiarly afterwards, but—the phrase had a pleasing

and yet a disturbing ring.

She was not a good little thing at all, of course. She had even told lies to her husband —lots

of them, under the pressure of fear and desperation.

It was a dreadful thing, really—to have told lies to the one person who loved you and trusted

you above all others. But then it was rather dreadful to reflect at all on how completely Paul

trusted her. He was smilingly, carelessly ignorant of that chapter in her life with Lindley.

Lindley had him at a disadvantage there. He could smile—but not with ignorance. With

knowledge. Knowledge about Paul's wife, which Paul himself was denied.

'It's absurd to argue that way! I couldn't possibly tell him!' Marigold exclaimed, speaking

aloud.

And then, because there was no one to answer her, the words seemed to hang in the air, as

though they refused to fade away without due consideration being given to them.

I couldn't possibly tell him.

She didn't actually voice the words again. But she knew suddenly why they had been formed.

To ward off the misgiving which was growing. To answer the faint and foolish suggestion which

had drifted into her mind—that perhaps the full realisation of happiness would never be hers

until she had told him.

'It isn't necessary,' she kept on telling herself. 'It isn't necessary.'

And suddenly, as though a light had broken upon her, she knew that there was the reason for

doing it.

Because it was no longer necessary, because there was no compulsion upon her—if she

loved him, she must tell him.

Her relations with him had been shorn of' all complications. There was no other problem to

consider, no awkward circumstance to be weighed against another. The simple question was: Did

she want the truth between them, 01 did she not? Did a lie between lovers mean any thing or was

it to be ignored?

Slowly Marigold got to her feet, moving so quietly that the sparrows made no attempt to

break up their angry meeting, only a couple of yards away.

She turned back towards the gate, with no outward sign of having made a momentous deci-

sion since she came into the Park a quarter of an hour ago. She told herself that, even now, there

was time to review the situation again, time to change her mind a dozen times before she arrived

home, or before Paul could join her.

But she knew she was really only playing with words. Her real decision had been made and

could not be unmade.

She was going home to tell Paul. And her happiness must stand or fall, not by her power to

deceive him, but by his power to understand and forgive her.

CHAPTER XIII

IT took Marigold longer to go home than she had expected. Either that, or she had stayed at the

hospital or in the Park longer than she had imagined.

At any rate, by the time she reached home it was much later than she had thought, and as she

let herself into the flat, she was surprised to hear Paul call out:

'Hello, sweetheart! Is that you?'

'Yes.' Marigold came to the door of the sitting- room, and stood there for a second, taking in

the shattering fact that the moment of supreme crisis was upon her.

Paul, lounging in a chair, with his long legs stretched out to the fire, didn't look in the least

like a man who was about to be involved in a crisis. He got up as she came in, and came over to

kiss her and take her coat from her.

'Tired, darling?' He glanced at her quickly.

'No. Only a little, that is. You're home early, aren't you, Paul?'

'Well, I've had two pretty late evenings. It's time I had an early one.' He smiled at her. 'I'll put

these things in the bedroom for you, shall I'

'No, it's all right.' She carried her coat and hat into the other room, trying not to think that she

was really delaying the moment which she had persuaded herself to meet. No point in putting it

off now, but——'

She looked into the mirror without seeing her reflection, smoothed her hair with a hand that

trembled slightly, and then went back to the room where Paul was.

He was back in his chair by now, and she crossed the room and sat down on the rug at his

feet.

'Aren't you going to make yourself more comfortable than that?' He smiled down lazily at

her.

'I am comfortable,' she said, and leant against his knee, whereupon he put his arm round her

and drew her a little closer.

'What have you been doing with yourself?' That was not a searching enquiry, merely a tender

interest in the way she had spent her day.

'I've been out—all the afternoon.'

'And tired yourself, although you say you haven't.' He moved his arm and lightly touched her

hair. 'Have you been walking around enjoying what sunshine there is, or shopping—or what?'

'I've been to the hospital,' she said deliberately. 'I went to see Lindley.'

The hand which was stroking her hair stopped suddenly.

'Lindley, eh?' His voice was slightly strained. 'Why did you go to see him, Marigold? I

shouldn't have thought there was any—need.'

'Yes, there was. I went to find out what he told Stephanie the other night. I wanted to know

why she—she seemed to think I'd done something wonderful for her.'

'I don't think I quite understand,' he said slowly. 'You must have known about that. I thought

the whole point was that you'd persuaded Lindley to supply her with cast-iron evidence for her

divorce and not to oppose it. That was what you were talking about, surely, when the fire started.'

Marigold closed her eyes for a moment. Then, with an effort, she pushed from her the last

temptation to prevaricate.

'No,' she said, opening her eyes again and staring into the fire. 'We weren't talking about that

at all. At least, he only offered to do that on —on condition that I went to the States with him.'

'Went to—God in heaven! How dared he even make such a suggestion?' Paul was sitting

upright in his chair now, and she was scared at the anger in his face.

'Wait, Paul.' She noticed that her voice had a tendency to run up to a higher note than usu.al

But she forced it down and spoke with determined calm and coolness. 'It was a preposterous

suggestion, of course. An insulting suggestion, if you like. But—but he rather thought he had the

power to enforce it.'

'What do you mean—"the power"?' He too had made an effort and his voice was calmer

'What—power had he to enforce anything on you?'

For a moment she found it very difficult to go on. Without knowing what she was doing, she

took his hand and played nervously and absently with his fingers.

'Paul, that time Lindley came to the house —when you and I were on our honeymoon —that

wasn't the first time I had met him.'

She was surprised that he gave no sharp and angry exclamation at that. Instead there was a

queer silence. Then he said, without much expression:

'No? When was the first time?'

'I don't know that that really matters. What I was trying to say was that—that I knew him

already—very well.'

'You didn't seem to, Marigold.'

'No, I—couldn't.'

'Why not?'

'Paul, I'm telling this very badly. It's partly that I'm frightened, and partly that I've thought of

this so often that I don't know which words to choose. I met Lindley first at the office. We

became friendly. I didn't know right at first that he was married, but fairly soon I did. I won't

pretend anything else. I didn't know what Stephanie was like, of course. I thought she was —was

chilly and unsympathetic and—and didn't care about him.' It all sounded so fantastic and absurd,

in view of what she now knew, that she hesitated.

'Go on,' Paul said, and it was quite impossible to tell from his voice what he was thinking.

'Paul, will you try to understand and make some sort of excuses for me? I thought I could

plead my own case—but I can't. It all sounds so sordid and—cheap, whichever way I put it.'

'Go on,' he said again, and this time his voice was harsh. He had never spoken to her in that

tone before and she told herself, too late, that she had been a fool to expect him—or any man —

to understand.

'I thought I was in love with him.

—What did you say?'

'Nothing. Go on.'

'I thought he was in love with me too, and I believed that he—he wanted a divorce from his

wife—from Stephanie, I mean, and that he- would marry me then. I agreed to go away with him

for the weekend, and——'

'Marigold, why are you telling me this?' Paul exclaimed in a tone of angry pain.

'Because I couldn't go on living a lie any longer,' she said helplessly. 'When I met you down

at that hotel, I——'

'God! Were you the girl?' he broke in suddenly. And then, when she nodded, he put his hands

over his face.

'Paul! Listen to me, Paul!' She was kneeling up beside him now, pulling his hands from his

face, and kissing him distractedly.

'Don't,' he said, in that same harsh voice, but he didn't actually push her away. 'So I suppose

the uncle was an invention?'

'Yes, but——'

'And the need to get away was an invention—'

'No, Paul! That isn't true! I'd only been there a few hours. I'd already begun to understand

that Lindley only had me there for—for as, a weekend girl. I'd been a fool ever to imagine

anything else, of course, but I had believed in him. It may not sound any better to you to go with

a man because you—you think he'll marry you eventually than to go with him for a weekend's f-

fun. But there is a difference, Paul. Will you please believe me when I tell you that something

about the whole affair suddenly opened my eyes. I was frantic to get away. I'd run up to my room

to get my things. I couldn't think of anything but escaping before—before anything happened

and—'

'What do you mean—"before anything happened"?' he asked roughly.

'Why,' she stared at him, the colour rushing into her face, 'there'd not been anything between

us. Anything that—mattered, I mean.'

He caught her by her chin suddenly—much more sharply and uncomfortably than Lindley

had taken hold of her that afternoon.

'Do you swear that to me?'

'Yes, Paul, yes. Do you suppose I should be telling you this now, if I—if I—'

'I don't know.' He released her, and passed his hand rather wearily over his hair. 'I don't know

why the devil you didn't tell me before or why the devil you insist on telling me now.'

She swallowed nervously, wishing he would look at her, instead of away from her with that

hard expression of bewilderment.

'It—it's the same reason in each case,' she whispered and she pulled at his sleeve, like a ner-

vous child. 'It's because I love you.'

He turned his head slowly then and looked at her, and she was shocked to see that he looked

haggard instead of boyish and bewildered instead of confident.

'I thought,' he said slowly, 'that you told me you loved Lindley.'

'But that was over, Paul! That was over! I know I'm only saying what many fools have said

before me, but it wasn't anything but infatuation. Please believe me—it wasn't anything else. And

I got away before anything—anything irrevocable had happened. I asked you to help me, and

you did, dear. If you hadn't, I don't know that I should have escaped at all. I'd no idea you had

anything to do with Lindley, of course. I simply went into your room because he was coming up

the stairs and I knew he'd see me the next second.'

Paul never took his eyes from her face as she poured out her explanation.

'So you—came to me because you were frightened of him?'

'Yes.'

'And then?'

'Oh, Paul, you know most of the rest. You agreed to help me. I couldn't tell you the truth —I

was too much ashamed to tell a perfectly strange man. I invented the uncle, and you believed

me.'

'Not entirely,' Paul said under his breath.

'Not?'

'No. I thought there was something queer about the whole story that first evening. But almost

at once I—wanted to think that everything about you was all right.'

'Oh, darling—and almost at once I knew that everything about you was all right. I know I

sound silly and unbalanced and—and immoral after all this, but '

No, you don't,' he said, with a faint smile. 'You don't sound immoral at all. Only, I thought—'

He stopped suddenly. Then, putting out his arm, he caught her roughly against him. 'What did

you mean when you said you couldn't tell me then and you had to tell me now, just because you

loved me?'

'Why, don't you see?' she pressed eagerly against him. 'I was so afraid at first, Paul. I knew I'd

lose you, if I told you I'd been—been playing around with Stephanie's husband, that I was the

"poisonous little girl-friend"—'

'Who called you that?' he asked sharply.

'Why, you did. Oh, you didn't know you were describing me, of course. You were speaking

about—about the girl who had been with Lindley. If I'd never been ashamed before, Paul, I'd

have wanted to die of shame then. And that it was you who thought it! You! I wanted so terribly

to be something good and dear in your eyes and Stephanie's. You thought it so odd when I said I

—I wished I were worthy of your friendship, but you see now—I wasn't.'

'Be quiet.' He suddenly kissed her hard on her mouth.

She was literally silent for a moment, struggling with the desire to cry. Then he said softly:

'So all the time I was making love to you and wanting you to marry me, you were terrified of

being found out?'

'Y-yes.'

'Hush, love. Don't cry.'

'I'm not cr—crying.'

'All right, tell me the rest. How did you suppose it could be kept quiet, once Stephanie

brought a divorce suit?'

'Why, you see, I—I hoped at first that my name need never come in. I—I went to see Lindley

at his flat that time to see if it could be managed. But I found he—he was tremendously amused

and intrigued with the situation. He was determined to let the case go on, and then to smash it by

disclosing who I was, because then he knew that you would have to give evidence that you

yourself had taken me away from the hotel quite early in the evening.'

'God! You poor little devil. Was that what he was holding over you?' He kissed her cheek,

but very softly this time. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I couldn't Paul. I couldn'tl I kept on hoping that I'd be able to persuade him to change his

mind. That he wouldn't insist on satisfying his spite towards all of us that way, but would let the

divorce go forward on quite different evidence. That was why I let him come along to the school

and talk things over again, and that was why he thought he just might be able to bring enough

pressure to bear on me to make me go —go with him.'

'Damned skunk,' muttered Paul. And then, in a tone of surprise: 'But apparently you persuad-

ed him, after all. I'd forgotten that. And he did it to please you—not for Stephanie's sake.'

'Oh, it—it was more or less a chance in the end,' Marigold said. 'He'd been stunned by a blow

on the head when we were trying to escape from the fire. I—I could have left him. I very nearly

did, Paul——'

'A thousand pities you didn't,' Paul interjected grimly.

'It was something of a temptation,' she admitted doggedly. 'It would have meant that—that no

one need ever know. But you can't leave someone to die, when it comes to the point.'

'I could have left him with the greatest pleasure,' Paul declared dryly.

'No, you couldn't. But anyway, it doesn't matter. I didn't leave him and—well, he seemed to

think I deserved something in return. He told Stephanie that I had persuaded him not to oppose

her divorce, and also to supply her with much more conclusive evidence than—that anything

connected with that hotel incident.'

'I—see. And you didn't know about that until Stephanie came yesterday evening?'

'No. And I didn't know even then what had made her think me her benefactor,' Marigold

admitted with a smile. 'That's why I went to see Lindley this afternoon. He told me what he had

done and that nothing about my visit to the hotel would ever come out.'

'Whereupon you promptly celebrated your freedom from blackmail by coming home and tel-

ling me all about it,' Paul said bewilderedly. 'Why?'

'I've told you, Paul! I've told you!' She was hanging round his neck, kissing him beseech-

ingly. 'It's because I love you. I can't have lies between us. I can't let Lindley know something

about me that you don't know. And I can't ever, ever be happy unless you know me for what I am

and will love me and forgive me.'

'You darling, darling little idiot!' He was returning her kisses as eagerly as she gave them. 'So

that's it. You could have kept it all quiet, but you wanted me to know.'

'Not quite "wanted you to know," ' Marigold confessed. 'I dreaded your knowing. But I—I

terribly wanted to be forgiven, I suppose.' And then, as he just smiled at her in silence: 'Am I

forgiven, Paul?'

'No, of course not,' he said, touching her cheek gently. 'There's nothing to forgive.'

'But there is, Paul. There's a lot to forgive.

You were so terribly angry just now. That shows.'

'Was I?' He dismissed it with a smile. 'There was a lot to explain, darling, but nothing to for-

give. And I'm not angry any longer.'

'But there—there must be something'. She hugged him with nervous eagerness.

'What kind of something?' He looked amusedly at her. 'Do you want me to stage a grand

forgiveness scene?'

'Not exactly.' She laughed a little at that. 'Only it all seems so simple, Paul. As though—as

though all the storm and crisis has just died down quite naturally and there's nothing wrong, after

all.'

'Well, that's how it should be.' He gently ruffled her hair, and pressed her head against him.

'There's nothing wrong, after all. And of course, it's all quite simple. Because, as you yourself

said, you love me. Or rather, because we love each other.'

She was silent against him for a long while after that, perfectly happy in the simple content

between them. Then at last she said anxiously:

'Need Stephanie know?'

'Not unless you wish to tell her,' he said carelessly.

'I'd rather not.'

'Very well, we'll leave it at that. There she is, by the way, I should think,' he added, as the

front door bell rang.

'I'll go.' She jumped up, but he caught her and held her for a moment.

'What?'

'Only that you're so dear—and mine,' he said as he kissed her.

She was laughing happily as she went to open the door to Stephanie.

'Oh, my dear! No need to ask how you are. You look a different girl,' exclaimed Stephanie as

she came into the sitting-room and saw Marigold in the full light.

'Do I?' Marigold looked slightly surprised. 'I feel wonderful,' she added with a smile at her

husband.

'Obviously. What have you been doing with yourself?' Stephanie threw herself into a com-

fortable chair and began to pull off her gloves. 'Lazing by the fire, or enjoying what I'm sure is

excessively healthy but very cold sunshine?'

'Neither,' Paul said, answering for her. 'She went to see Lindley this afternoon, and confirmed

that he is quite determined not to put any difficulties in the way of your divorce. I think we owe a

good deal to my clever little wife.'

'Indeed we do.' Stephanie smiled and kissed the tips of her fingers to Marigold. 'I didn't tell

you before, Paul, for fear of making you jealous, but she evidently made the most enormous

impression on Lindley.'

There was a short silence. Then Paul said rather politely:

'Is that so?'

'Yes. Don't be so ridiculous and formal. It's just so,' Stephanie assured him. 'In fact, if I didn't

know it was impossible with Lindley—'

She stopped and frowned thoughtfully.

'What, Stephanie?'

Stephanie turned in her chair and faced Marigold.

'I never heard him speak in quite the same way of any woman before. Not even of myself

when he was making his best impression. Of course, I know he hardly knew you and so it sounds

absurd. But, odd though it seems, I believe he was fond of you.'

Marigold's grey eyes opened wide—partly in surprise and partly in a sort of alarm. Then she

thought of Lindley turning from her that afternoon with his air of rather weary indifference, and

she slightly shook her head.

It was Paul who answered in words, and his tone was that of a man who had stumbled on a

queer discovery.

'Odd though it seems,' he agreed thoughtfully, 'I believe he was.'