“Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it,” she responded carelessly, “but I think you and Lady Montella ought to know. Raie has not told me much, but it is evidently a secret love-affair. They meet clandestinely every day somewhere in this direction.” “And the man?” “Is a Mr. Merryweather, presumably a tourist. He came to the Government House one evening, and I was rather favourably impressed. But he is too old and too worldly-wise for Raie. He must be over thirty, and has evidently been about a good deal.” “Merryweather?” repeated Lionel thoughtfully. “Is he a Jew?” “Yes; at least Raie says he is, although he has not the appearance of one.” “And they made each other’s acquaintance while we were in Jerusalem, I suppose?” There was a note of vexation in his voice. “I am surprised at Raie. My mother will be very displeased. But perhaps Mrs. Emanuel—Raie’s mother—knows something about it?” Miss Lorm gave vent to a little shrug. “Perhaps,” she replied carelessly. “I do not know. Don’t say I told you anything about it, will you, Lionel? Raie would be so cross, and— Good gracious, there they are!” She stopped suddenly in her walk, and placed her hand detainingly on his arm. Montella’s eyes followed the direction of her glance with astonishment, and he could not resist an exclamation of surprise. The two delinquents were seated in a shady arbour, almost concealed by deeply-hanging evergreens. Their faces were in shadow, but Miss Lorm recognised the girl’s light hat. “What are you going to do?” she asked, with a touch of excitement. “Catch them red-handed, or pretend not to see them?” “I don’t know.” Montella paused irresolute. It was very wrong of Raie to meet a young man in this unconventional manner, especially as she had been brought up so strictly; but not being aware of all the circumstances, he was at a loss to know how to proceed. He had half a mind to pass by quietly, and speak to the girl afterwards; but approaching the arbour he caught the sound of his own name, and could not help standing still. “Lionel is wiser than I thought,” the man was saying, in a tone of dissatisfaction. “So he will not trust you with the keys? But are you sure you went the right way to work, Raie, dear? You see if you looked at all agitated when you asked him, you probably made him suspicious.” His accents were strong and well-bred. Montella started as at a familiar sound, but was almost too dumfounded to move. “My cheeks did burn,” the girl acknowledged, almost tearfully. “You see Lionel gave me one of his straight looks—as if he were reading me through and through, and I felt so guilty that I dared not say a word. He gave me my letters out of the safe, and I just took them and went, thankful to get away. I did my best really, but it is such a difficult task, dear. I am sure I shall never be able to succeed.”