“You must go in, little woman,” he said practically. “Now you’re mine you shan’t run any risks, not even summer ones. Shall I speak to your uncle?” he asked her as they neared the little artificial lights of the house. “Not yet,” she whispered hoarsely, with a terrible fear in her eyes. Jack followed her glance. It rested on a young girl’s face. Gladys was standing close at the French window looking out into the night—desperate, wild, despairing. “There’s something wrong with the child,” Muriel said quick to Jack—“bad news from home, I think,” for even at that moment she knew she must keep the other woman’s secret. “Let me go to her, darling—good-night! It’s awful, isn’t it,” she said, “to be so selfish and so happy!” She caught her hand from him, hurrying into the house. “It’s wicked, it’s wicked,” she murmured, “to be happy at all.” Gladys called out over the approaching figure, “There is a letter for Captain Hurstly!” He came unwillingly forward into the light about the window. Muriel stood now with her hand in the girl’s looking back at him. Gladys herself seemed unaware of the touch. She was smiling painfully; the “On Her Majesty’s Service” seemed to demand attention. Jack opened it, read it, glanced for a moment to Muriel, and placed it in his pocket. “What does it say?” said Gladys, and Jack, so absorbed by its purpose and the strangeness of the scene, never knew till afterwards that it was not Muriel who had spoken. He tried to make light of it. “Oh, I’m called off sooner than I expected.” “When?” They both spoke at once this time. Again he only heard Muriel. “The fact is—well, to-night,” he owned unsteadily. Gladys stepped quickly forward; a little quivering light shone in her eyes; she caught her breath and half unconsciously held out her hands. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Captain Hurstly!” she cried; “and I wish you—I wish you the very best luck in the world.” He looked towards Muriel, but she was gone. He met the girl’s eyes again. His own felt unaccountably misty. Muriel was gone, and this little thing was wishing him the very best luck in the world. He pressed her hands gratefully. “Thank you, thank you awfully,” he murmured. “I think I’ve got it to-night——” “Oh, where’s that tiresome Jack Hurstly?” cried a voice from the window. “I left him my fan to take care of, and——” “I’ve got it here, Mrs. le Mentier,” cried Jack hastily, stepping through the low French window with the missing fan in his hand.