Suddenly--across these dismal broodings--there shot a new idea. _Fas est et ab hoste doceri_; she did not put it in Latin, but it came to the same thing--Couldn't she pay Lynborough back in his own coin? She had her resources--perhaps she had been letting them lie idle! Lord Lynborough did not live alone at Scarsmoor. If there were women open to his wiles at the Grange, were there no men open to hers at Scarsmoor? The idea was illuminating; she accorded it place in her thoughts. She was just by the gate. She took out her key, opened the padlock, closed the gate behind her, but did not lock it, walked on to the road, and surveyed the territory of Scarsmoor. Fate helps those who help themselves: her new courage of brain and heart had its reward. She had not been there above a minute when Roger Wilbraham came out from the Scarsmoor gates. Lynborough had, he considered, done enough for one day. He was awaiting the results of to-morrow's manoeuvers anent the cricket match. But he amused himself after lunch by proffering to Roger a wager that he would not succeed in traversing Beach Path from end to end, and back again, alone, by his own unassisted efforts, and without being driven to ignominious flight. Without a moment's hesitation Roger accepted. "I shall just wait till the coast's clear," he said. "Ah, but they'll see you from the windows! They will be on the lookout," Lynborough retorted. The Marchesa had strolled a little way down the road. She was walking back toward the gate when Roger first came in sight. He did not see her until after he had reached the gate. There he stood a moment, considering at what point to attack it--for the barricade was formidable. He came to the same conclusion as Lynborough had reached earlier in the day. "Oh, I'll jump the wall," he said. "The gate isn't locked," remarked a charming voice just behind him. He turned round with a start and saw--he had no doubt whom she was. The Marchesa's tall slender figure stood before him--all in white, crowned by a large, yet simple, white hat; her pale olive cheeks were tinged with underlying red (the flush of which Lynborough had dreamed!); her dark eyes rested on the young man with a kindly languid interest; her very red lips showed no smile, yet seemed to have one in ready ambush. Roger was overcome; he blushed and stood silent before the vision. "I expect you're going to bathe? Of course this is the shortest way, and I shall be so glad if you'll use it. I'm going to the Grange myself, so I can put you on your way." Roger was honest. "I--I'm staying at the Castle." "I'll tell somebody to be on the lookout and open the gate for you when you come back," said she. If Norah was no match for Lynborough, Roger was none for the Marchesa's practised art. "You're--you're awfully kind. I--I shall be delighted, of course." The Marchesa passed through the gate. Roger followed. She handed him the key.