"Now," she told herself, "I've removed temptation from everybody's way." The three half-sheets of paper on which Mr. Lindsay had noted the several amounts she folded up together and thrust into the bodice of her dress; possibly she thought that they would be out of harm's way there. She had just done this, and had shut the bookcase door, when, in the silence which prevailed, she distinctly heard the footsteps of some one moving in the grounds without. Instantly she blew the lamp out, and went fluttering through the open window. So soon as she was on the terrace she stood still to listen. Her ear had not deceived her. Some one, not far off, was moving along a gravel path; apparently the sound proceeded from the other side of the house. Either her perceptions must have been very keen, or there was something unusual about the step; though it is strange how quick the ear is to recognize a step with which one is familiar. "I do believe," she told herself, "that it's his step." She ran along to the end of the terrace; then stopped again. "It is!" she said. With lifted skirts she tiptoed round the side of the house till she came to where a path branched off among the trees, then, drawing herself under their shadow, she stood and waited, smiling. The steps came nearer, close to where she was. She moved out from under the shadow. "Herbert!" she said. The man--it was a man--was evidently taken by surprise; he stepped back so quickly that he almost stumbled. "By George!" he exclaimed, "what a start you gave me!" She laughed, half to herself. "Did she frighten him, the poor thing! I heard you coming ever so far off; I knew it was you. And pray what are you doing here at this time of night?" "I came upon the off-chance of getting a word with you." "With me--at this hour!" "Well, I've found you, and that's what I wanted." "Herbert!" She went still closer, almost as if expecting a caress; but when he showed no inclination to take advantage of his opportunities, she saw from his face, in the moonlight, that there was something wrong. "My lord, what ails you?" "Everything; I've come up to tell you that what we were talking about yesterday is clean off." "And of what were we talking--yesterday?" "Why, about our marriage, and all that kind of thing. I can't marry; I don't suppose I ever shall be able to; you'd better give me the mitten right away. To begin with, I've found out--or, rather, I've had the fact forced upon me, that I'm in a mess." "What kind of mess?" "Money, of course; what else counts?" "How much?" "If I don't get two hundred pounds--and where am I going to get two hundred pounds? why, I haven't as many shillings--and get it pretty soon, I shall have to----" "What?" He had left his sentence unfinished; he gave it a conclusion which one felt had not been originally intended. "Well, I shall be in Queer Street." He paused, and she was silent; she was thinking. CHAPTER IV