"No one but his Maker," said Lodge, who had drawn his hat over his eyes, and was lying on the grass beside French:--"and _le bon Dieu_ alone knows what he was doing; for he wasn't asleep. I heard him tubbing at some unearthly hour in the room next to mine." "I finished my article about seven a.m.," said Horne tranquilly--"while you fellows were sleeping off the effects of debauch." "Brute!" said Geoffrey languidly. Then suddenly, as though he had remembered something, he sat up. "By the way, Buntingford, I had an adventure yesterday evening--Ah, here comes Helena! Half the story's mine--and half is hers. So we'll wait a moment." The men sprang to their feet. Helena in the freshest of white gowns, white shoes and a white hat approached, looking preoccupied. Lady Mary Chance, who was sitting at an open drawing-room window, with a newspaper she was far too tired to read on her lap, was annoyed to see the general eagerness with which a girl who occasionally, and horribly said "D--mn!" and habitually smoked, was received by a group of infatuated males. Buntingford found the culprit a chair, and handed her a cigarette. The rest, after greeting her, subsided again on the grass. "Poor Peter!" said Helena, in a tone of mock pity, turning her eyes to the sleeping form under the chestnut. "Have I won, or haven't I? I bet him I would be down first." "You've lost--of course," said Horne. "Peter was down an hour ago." "That's not what I meant by 'down.' I meant 'awake.'" "No woman ever pays a bet if she can help it," said Horne, "--though I've known exceptions. But now, please, silence. Geoffrey says he has something to tell us--an adventure--which was half his and half yours. Which of you will begin?" Helena threw a quick glance at Geoffrey, who nodded to her, perceiving at the same moment that she had in her hand the little embroidered bag of the night before. "Geoffrey begins." "Well, it'll thrill you," said Geoffrey slowly, "because there was a spy among us last night--'takin' notes.'" And with the heightening touches that every good story-teller bestows upon a story, he described the vision of the lake--the strange woman's face, as he had seen it in the twilight beside the yew trees. Buntingford gradually dropped his cigarette to listen. "Very curious--very interesting," he said ironically, as French paused, "and has lost nothing in the telling." "Ah, but wait till you hear the end!" cried Helena. "Now, it's my turn." And she completed the tale, holding up the bag at the close of it, so that the tarnished gold of its embroidery caught the light. Buntingford took it from her, and turned it over. Then he opened it, drew out the handkerchief, and looked at the initials, "'F. M.'" He shook his head. "Conveys nothing. But you're quite right. That bag has nothing to do with a village woman--unless she picked it up."